


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by LadyRoxie



Series: Between the Shadow and the Soul [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9827864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRoxie/pseuds/LadyRoxie
Summary: Jack sets out for England but never arrives.





	1. Chapter 1

_And now we welcome the New Year, full of things that have never been._  
Rainer Maria Rilke

_In one kiss, you’ll know all I haven’t said. _  
Pablo Neruda__

__

__The Honourable Phryne Fisher laughed as she was swung gracefully to a stop by her dancing partner. They were both warm and tipsy, and his eyes sparkled with admiration and not a little naughtiness as he pressed a kiss to her hand before leading her off the dance floor. Phryne reached out to a passing waiter, daintily lifting two glasses of Champagne off his silver tray._ _

__She passed one to her companion and smiled._ _

__“Well we may not have cleared the dance floor, but I'm fairly sure we've set at least a few tongues wagging.”_ _

__The man, his eyes never leaving hers, tilted his head as he accepted his glass._ _

__“I can't say I mind.” He flashed a grin. “I imagine this crowd could use a little shaking up.”_ _

__Their glasses approached one another for a toast, and a voice called above the happy din of the ball room._ _

__“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! The new year is approaching! TEN, NINE, ...”_ _

__Her companion leaned in, his mouth beside her ear. “The year may be ending, but I'd like to think our evening was just beginning.” She felt his mouth brush the pulse point on her neck, and shivered._ _

__Phryne pulled her glass back with a little smile, and looked at her surroundings, suddenly wishing she were on the other side of the dance floor, where arched doors lead to an airy conservatory. She needed air._ _

__“EIGHT, SEVEN...”_ _

__“Phryne, are you quite alright?”_ _

__“I, yes, yes of course.” She ignored tradition and took a deep sip of her champagne, grateful for the cold._ _

__“FOUR, THREE,....”_ _

__It wasn't right. It was wrong, but she couldn't tell him. She needed to go._ _

__“TWO, ONE.... HAPPY NEW YEAR!”_ _

__All around them, corks popped, people cheered, and the landed gentry of Britain threw propriety to the wind and kissed each other primly on the cheek._ _

__The man beside her leaned in, his broad chest shielding them from most of the crowd, and moved to kiss her with what promised to be very little propriety. At the last moment, Phryne shifted her head a fraction, so his lips met the corner of her mouth, and lingered, still._ _

__“What's wrong,” he asked, genuine concern in his voice._ _

__“Nothing. Nothing, I... I think I'd like some air.” Phryne tossed back the rest of her Champagne, and headed for the wide doors of the ballroom, the ones leading to the foyer and the front doors of the manor. She grabbed her fur wrap from a chair near the entrance, and managed to deftly dodge the five or six pairs of outstretched arms hoping to give her a midnight embrace. Outside, it was cold, a light dusting of snow covering the crisp grass on the lawns, and there were few revellers._ _

__“Phryne, wait! Slow down.” He caught up to her on the steps, and she had a vision of herself as Cinderella, from the storybook she and Janey used to read at Aunt Prudence's house, running out on her prince at midnight, no explanation given._ _

__But she was no Cinderella, and this man, kind and lovely though he was, was no prince. She stopped, pausing on the wide stone steps to catch her breath._ _

__“Are you ill? What can I do, Phryne?”_ _

__She turned, forcing herself to meet his kind brown eyes._ _

__“I'm sorry, Evan. That was unfair of me. I did have a marvellous time tonight. I just feel I need to go home. I'm terribly sorry. Please give my regrets to Lord and Lady Marchdale, will you?”_ _

__She knew he sensed there was more to it, but Evan Darling was nothing if not tactful, and as kind as his eyes suggested. They had gone together tonight as good, if old, friends, and he knew he had no claims on Phryne Fisher, now or otherwise. It didn't stop him being disappointed to lose his dancing partner so early in the evening, though. And, she thought a little grimly, she knew he had likely expected their dance to go on well into the next morning, if in a slightly more private setting._ _

__As it was, Evan nodded, his face betraying his concern and his confusion, and more than a little hurt._ _

__“Can I get you a car? Can I drive you home?”_ _

__Phryne shook her head, placing a hand on the lapel of his tuxedo._ _

__“I'll be fine. I'm going to walk a little.”_ _

__“Phryne Fisher, adventuress.” His tender smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and he shrugged. “I'm almost tempted to have you followed by my driver at a discrete distance...”_ _

__“But you know that would be enough to get you blacklisted,” said Phryne with a tilt of her head. “I have fare for a cab, if I don't feel like walking all the way. I'll be fine, Evan. Thank you.”_ _

__He walked down the few steps so he was level with her and leaned in once more, this time setting a soft kiss on her cheek._ _

__“Happy New Year, P.”_ _

__“Happy New Year, dear Evan.”_ _

__She turned and made fresh footprints on the stone path to the street, the strains of Auld Lang Syne drifting out into the London night._ _

__*******_ _

_Five weeks earlier._

__The first time Jack woke, reaching for consciousness like he was drowning and it was air, a searing pain tore through his chest and his lungs burned with every laboured breath. Everything was black. Sweat trickled down his brow past his temple and into his hair. He tried to move, to reach a hand up to his face, and the resulting stabbing in his right hand had him tumbling again into unconsciousness._ _

__From then on, waking meant descending quickly into a nightmare. It was pitch dark, his eyes seemed fused shut, and his mouth and throat were cracked and raw. Time was limitless and vast. There was no morning or night, days or hours, only a landscape of different sorts of pain._ _

__Gradually, the periods of consciousness stretched out, but instead of bringing clarity or relief, they only seemed to prolong his torture and deepen the rising panic. He struggled each time to grasp at a memory, a thought beyond the agony of his body, but he remembered nothing. He might have been dead, he thought, but he was sure it wouldn't hurt this much._ _

__Once, he heard a shuffle of movement nearby and attempted to open his eyes. When he couldn't, terror rose in his throat. He tried to speak, his lungs feeling like they would explode, and a noise like he'd never heard died in his mouth. The effort made the blood pound in his ears, and he remembered nothing more._ _

__Sometimes, he woke to singing. It was low, and lyrical, and not in a language he knew. Even the tune sounded foreign, and he wondered before he slipped back into sleep, if he was in heaven or hell._ _


	2. Chapter 2

Time had no sense, and Jack's fevered dreams were almost as haunting as his waking moments. He'd be floating on water, cool and blue-green, and pale arms were wrapping around his waist. He would chase the feeling of jubilation he knew was just out of reach, _just.... there...._

_You're almost home, mate, almost home, and she's waiting...._

And then the water would turn become silver shards of glass, piercing his body and stabbing the air out of his lungs. He'd wake choking, trembling, drenched in sweat, only to find the pain didn't stop with waking.

Once, he felt a blissfully cool cloth being mopped on the top of his forehead and down his cheeks, and heard the droplets of water falling into a bowl as the cloth was repeatedly dipped and wrung out. He couldn't imagine a more heavenly feeling, and he wept at it, and again when it stopped.

It was then he realized he couldn't open his eyes against the gauze bandage over them, and thought it must be a hospital and not hell after all. 

One day he smelled bread, and another a spicy aroma that must have been food. A woman's voice hummed a gentle tune nearby, and he had the urge to signal to her, that he was awake, he was alive. Forgetting himself, he made to move his right hand, and gasped at the pain. Tears dampened the cloth on his eyes, and he held his breath between sobs before falling unconscious again.

Sometimes, when he awoke, the woman was there, murmuring to him, and tending to what he knew must be wounds. At first, he understood them only in terms of pain – his right hand, his chest, his throat, his eyes. Sometimes the pain was red hot and angry, sometimes dark and dull like a bruise, and, though it was less and less, sometimes it was so white and electric that it stole his breath and he begged for it to kill him. 

The periods he was awake became longer and more frequent, though he could not have said how long that took. Sometimes now, the woman would sit beside his bed, spooning a thin, spiced soup into his mouth, wiping his mouth and chin when he coughed and it spilled. 

Sometimes, he would wake in panic, a flash of metal and nightmares of flames and the smell of burnt flesh making him gag. Always she would be there, her hand miraculously cool on his face, her voice soothing and low. 

When he tried to speak, she placed her fingers over his mouth. Though he couldn't understand the words, her message was clear, and he'd seen enough chest wounds on the battlefield to know. Don't speak. 

_What in God's name had happened to him?_ As the thought crystallized in his mind, he started to tremble, trying again to make his voice obey. All he managed was a rough moan, and then her gentle hands were on him again, tracing the lines of his brows, brushing back the hair from his forehead. She began a low, slow song, her hand never leaving his skin. He felt the tears staining the bandage around his head, and cried until the trembling stopped. Then he slept again. 

Gradually, he began to form an image of where he might be. He was in a room, perhaps a hospital or a house, with at least one wide window open to the street. He could hear the passing of carts and horses, an occasional car, and the almost constant chatter from the neighbourhood. Whatever language it was, it was unknown to him. Hindi, perhaps, or Arabic. A chorus of birdsong rose before he woke every morning, until finally it drowned out even the shouts from vendors in the street. In time it would dull, replaced with the sounds of a city. 

One morning, when he awoke, the bandage around his eyes was gone. Jack caught his breath and blinked experimentally a few times, almost not daring to believe he could see. He had to squint against the brightness of the daylight pouring through a red-curtained window. 

His lungs still burned, and movement made his chest felt like it had been cracked open, so sitting up was impossible. But he found that if he turned his head carefully, not pulling at the bandages on his chest, he could see almost the whole room.

It was no hospital. The room was small, with no glass on the window, only tall, louvred shutters, now open to the street. The walls were plaster, long ago painted a deep turquoise, now dulled and chipped by age and weather. Everything in the room was tidy and neat. The floor was covered by a faded carpet, its threads worn but the colours still vivid. There was a small round table in one corner, a tiny stove and wash bowl, and the long low cot that had been Jack's bed for who knows how long. An ornate wooden screen was opened in a corner, and Jack could see a glimpse of orange and pink fabric on the floor behind it. 

The woman was curled up on a small seat under the window, her head pillowed on her arms as she slept. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties. She wore a dark rose coloured linen dress that billowed around her, and had a black scarf wrapped around her head, leaving only her face bare.

Perhaps he could urge her to send a telegram, or write a missive to someone who could help him. Jack tried again to move his hand. He knew his fingers had been burnt, the thick bandages around them making much movement impossible. But he found that he could just wiggle the tips of his fingers before the pain made him fall back into the pillows, his breath coming in short hard gasps. 

She stirred, and Jack fought a reflex to close his eyes. 

The young woman turned her head, and smiled when she saw him. 

Suddenly, Jack was afraid. He was wounded, immobilized in a foreign place, and somehow alone with a young woman he'd never met. His muscles tightened automatically, and pain shot up his right arm and radiated from his chest. 

The woman rose nimbly from her bed on the floor, her dark eyes full of concern. She shook her head. 

“No,” she said.

 _English? She spoke English?_ Jack huffed out a difficult breath, trying to get his voice to obey him, and swallowed against the pain. He had to find out where he was, what happened. He had to get help. He....

Another blurry memory rode the wave of nausea he felt as he raised his head.

A punch to his chest, fire, so much screaming he wished he could shut his ears to it. _God, it had been his voice screaming._ He tried to slow his breathing, afraid of passing out before he remembered more. 

He'd been... he'd been on a boat. A ship.

_Phryne._

A choking sob collapsed out of his chest, and he felt tears burning his eyes.

He never got to her.

“Shhhh...” The woman's hand was once again on his forehead, the kindness making the tears impossible to stop. 

*******

_New Years Eve, London_

In spite of the chill, the night was moonlit and lovely, and Phryne was grateful for the walk. Every few minutes, small crowds of revellers tumbled out of houses onto the sidewalk, laughing and singing. She hugged her white fur closer about her collar. She didn't know what had come over her. She and Evan had known each other for years, and she was fond of his easy affability, and his natural irreverence. They had bonded soon after Phryne had come to live in London, when Phryne backed him up against a crew of obnoxious young aristocrats who were taunting Evan's younger brother. Angus Darling reminded Phryne so strongly of her cousin Arthur, she couldn't help but shoulder in. In the end, the older boys had backed off, and Phryne and the two Darling boys had become fast friends. The fact that upon becoming adults, Phryne and Evan had never had anything less than delightful and uncomplicated sex was lovely too, though it had been years since that had happened. As far as she knew, Evan was a happily confirmed bachelor, a rare combination of kind, gracious, and a terrific lay, but not interested in anything serious. His list of glamourous paramours was legendary (he did seem to favour blondes), and together they'd been looking forward to setting tongues wagging at their appearance tonight. 

The warm glow of the lamps made the houses in small road look like a stage set. Phryne crossed to the other side of the street, deliberately avoiding a gaggle of tipsy couples, all evidently escaping a party indoors so they could kiss a little more enthusiastically in the front garden. 

She hadn't wanted to hurt him. Not that he'd hold a grudge; it had never been like that between them. But she'd known when he'd asked her to come tonight he had anticipated their evening becoming intimate, and she'd accepted. 

So what happened?

“Stupid,” she said out loud, to no one. She had just felt... What? It was almost as if she had been ill. Moments before, she'd been happily twirling in Evan's arms, all right in her world. She'd been the centre of attention, on the arms of a deliciously handsome friend with whom all the most delicate and suitable understandings were in place, and yet.... And yet he wasn't the one she'd wanted. 

Jack hadn't come. 

She hadn't realized how much she'd been counting on it, until the holidays had arrived, marking time and throwing her back against her will to a year ago. A year ago, and most of the days in between. 

Phryne's foot nearly slipped going around the corner onto her street. Her heart caught in her chest as she regained her balance, but the rush of adrenaline was enough to shock her system, and tears started pouring down her cheeks. 

“Dammit, Jack,” she whispered. 

***

The next morning, her mother's butler greeted her with a tray of toast, eggs and tea in his hands. Damson had been with them since their inheritance, and Phryne had always been fond of him. More stoic and less flexible, perhaps, than Mr. Butler, but every bit as intuitive, and his genuine affection for Fisher-the-younger had always been an open secret. 

“Good morning, Miss,” he said, setting the breakfast down on a small table. “Happy New Year.”

Phryne's bedroom in the townhouse was not as luxurious as her boudoir in Melbourne, but only because her mother had hired the decorator. Margaret Fisher's style was scrupulously traditional, as if she were afraid anything remotely resembling personal choice might be construed in poor taste or Nouveau Riche.

Still, it was a lovely room, with powder blue walls with cream trim, and dark wood furniture upholstered in sumptuous rose velvet. It would do until she were back in her own.

Phryne stretched and smoothed her hair. She'd been up for hours, it seemed, if she'd even slept. It was unlike her, but not unfamiliar since she'd been in London. Since she'd left Melbourne, if she was honest. 

“Happy New Year, Damson. Thank you; I'd almost kill for a cup of hot sweet tea.” She squinted at the sunlight streaming through the mullioned windows. 

“No need for that, Miss.” said Damson, always able to hold his own against the Fisher women. 

“Any word from my parents?”

“Yes, Miss, they will be staying in the country until the end of next week.”

“Wonderful,” Phryne sighed happily.

“There was a telegram for you, Miss, very early this morning. I elected to keep it for you until now, as I assumed you'd be out very late last evening.”

“Thank you.” Phryne swung out of bed, throwing on a pale green silk dressing gown as she did. Damson expertly averted his eyes from his position near the doorway. “As it happens, I was in at an uncharacteristically sensible hour, though. Shocking but true.”

Damson nodded once, and left, closing the door silently behind him.

Phryne reached for the yellow envelope propped up against the toast rack. Mac, perhaps? 

She grabbed a piece of toast, the envelope held in her teeth for a moment while she scraped butter and jam on the bread, then plopped down in a velvet armchair, her legs dangling over the armrest. 

She smiled as she stole a glance at the sender's name. Dorothy Collins. How lovely.

HAPPY NY MISS stop HOPE LONDON IS WONDERFUL stop WE ARE EXPECTING stop GIVE BEST TO INSPECTOR stop COME HOME SOON stop LOVE D

Phryne's brow furrowed as she reread the note, too many things swirling in her head at once. Dot was pregnant? How wonderful! But the part about the Inspector... What could she mean? Jack wasn't here. _Give love to Inspector... in Melbourne?_ Phryne struggled to read sense into the few words on the page. 

Dot must have been confused; after all she can't have sent many telegrams, and there really was an art to it. Perhaps she meant the Inspector sends his best? But no, that couldn't be right either.

Phryne let the her hands fall to her lap, and bit her lip. 

She hadn't heard from Jack at all. Not since the single telegram he'd sent, the one that reached her in Singapore, after a day she'd thought would never end. The weather had been tricky, and her father had hollered at every dip and dive the plane took, making her nerves feel like live wires by the time they'd landed.

Jack's message had been characteristically brief:

DID YOU MEAN IT stop. J

Her response had been equally so:

YES stop XOHPF

Her fingers tightened around the thin paper as she recalled the feeling of her heart swelling in her chest at his words. He would come, she'd known it.

That was over 2 months ago. 

Phryne sat up, running a hand through her hair in frustration. What on earth was happening? She needed to know more. She needed to wire home. 

****

A short while later, Phryne stood in the Knightsbridge post office, chewing daintily on the end of a pencil.

“Miss?” The beige, middle aged man behind the counter looked as if the last thing he wanted to do was to actually _speak_ to the elegant woman in head-to-toe red standing before him, but he did have a queue to consider, and at the moment, she was holding it up. 

When his voice didn't get her attention, he cleared his throat with an apologetic glance at the imposing looking matron behind Phryne, and tried again. 

“Excuse me, Miss? I'm terribly sorry, but if you don't mind?”

Phryne was startled out of her thoughts and looked so immediately contrite that the man forgot why he'd been impatient in the first place.

“Oh of course! I do apologize. Please, take the next person while I debate what to write.” She flashed both the clerk and the woman behind her a winning smile, and moved to the end of the long counter. 

Finally, she batted her eyelashes at the clerk and held out her paper. 

HUGE CONGRATS WONDERFUL NEWS stop HNY TOO stop CLARIFY IS JACK IN MELB stop XOHPF

With any luck, Dot would respond quickly, and she could get to the bottom of this.

*****

Phryne spent the day in the parlour of her parent's elegant town house, trying to concentrate on a new and delightfully racy novel of the sort she would normally devour. Her mind wouldn't settle, turning over half-formed possibilities and feeling increasingly antsy as the day drew on. 

She had just gone to the stairs to dress for a dinner with Guy and Isabella she didn't feel like attending when she heard a sharp rap on the door and Damson’s low voice. She spun on the landing and flew back downstairs.

“Telegram?” she asked, slightly breathless.

“Yes, Miss.” The man handed her the slim envelope and disappeared. 

Phryne opened it immediately, and her stomach fell.

INSP SAILED FOR ENG 2 NOV ON ORIENT stop DUE TO DOCK STHMPTN 19 DEC stop IS HE NOT THERE QUERY stop DOT

Phryne frowned and read the note again. This was wrong; it made no sense. She would have heard if a steamer from Australia had wrecked before reaching England. How could he have been on the ship, and not be here? Or...

A thought gripped her and she backed up a few feet to sit heavily on the stairs. 

_What if he'd changed his mind?_

What if he'd set out, and sometime in the course of his journey, and decided she wasn't worth the risk to his heart? What if he'd realized that she could never be what he wanted, and had pulled away before he'd gotten in too deep?

Was he holed up somewhere between home and here nursing a heart he'd anticipated she'd break? Or had he decided to pretend none of it had happened at all, and was on a ship steaming back for Melbourne?

Then maybe, he'd disembarked at Southampton and instead of heading to London, had instead decided to see some of the 'whole world' she'd taunted him with, only without her.

Phryne's throat was hot and tight, and a rising cloud of panic was squeezing her lungs. 

“Breathe,” she told herself. “There has to be a way to find out....” There was an explanation, she just had to find it.

She'd go back to the post office first thing in the morning, and send another telegram to Dot. Maybe Jack gave some hint of his apprehension before he sailed, and maybe that would give her a place to start looking. 

But as she bathed and dressed for the evening, a dark thought clung to her like smoke.

_What if he didn't want to be found?_

****

Phryne was first in line at the post office the following morning, waiting for the clerk as he arrived to open the shop. There was no flirting today; again she'd barely slept, and no matter how hard she tried to stay reasonable, there didn't seem to be an explanation that wasn't more distressing than the last. 

Either Jack had arrived on that ship and chosen not to come to her, or something had happened along the way to keep him from coming. Either way, it was unlikely she was going to get answers from Dot, but she had to try.

DIJR NEVER ARR LONDON stop HOW MUCH LEAVE DID HE TAKE stop DID HE MENTION ALT DESTINATION stop XOHPF

Her hands were trembling as she hurried out of the building. Writing made it seem more real, and she fought a wave of nausea. Once on the street, she gulped a lungful of cold London air.

_God, Jack, where are you?_

****

Later that afternoon, Phryne stood at the window of the townhouse parlour. Outside, January had arrived in full force, grey, dreary and with a chill that made it almost impossible to stay warm. It was summer in Australia. She thought of Dot and Hugh, happily ensconced at Wardlow until her return, and of their joyful news. An uncharacteristic wave of melancholy swept over her as she imagined their shyly happy faces, glowing with the delight of another blessing in their lives. She missed them terribly. It wasn't a secret, at least not from herself. She missed all of them, and she missed the only home and family she'd ever felt rooted to. 

And more than anything, more than anyone, she missed Jack. She hadn't anticipated how much she'd feel his absence. It was as if without his steadying presence, no matter how much she drank, how long she danced, how fast she drove, she was rudderless. She didn’t understand it, had never been in love before. He managed to both excite and ground her, and without the anchor of his gaze, and the flint of his smirk and the smile she wanted to be only hers, she was too light, too ephemeral; adrift and at the mercy of everything from the weather to her own whims. She liked who she was with Jack; she loved who she was. She found herself wondering if the woman she'd always wanted to be was the one she could be with him.

Phryne sipped her tea without tasting it, and looked at her watch. Dot might have received her telegram before bed, but it would be the next morning in Melbourne before she was able to respond. That left Phryne almost another 12 hours before she would likely hear back. 

There was no decision to make, really. She was a detective, and a damn good one, and she wasn't going to sit about nursing a frightened heart; she was not going to fall apart. There was a mystery here, and she was going to get to the bottom of it. It was entirely possible there was some innocent explanation for Jack's disappearance, and they'd laugh about it soon enough. 

When a small voice in her head told her that was looking awfully unlikely, she made the decision to ignore it. If Jack wanted to avoid her, she'd let him be when she found him. And if there was something amiss... Well best just follow the evidence until things were clearer. 

First, she needed more information, and she knew just the person to help her get it. 

As it happened, Evan Darling had held several senior positions in the British Foreign Service, including postings in both Calcutta and Aden. Phryne set down her teacup and retrieved her address book from the small secretary in the corner of the parlour. She took it to the phone in the hall, and dialled his office number, hoping there were no hard feelings for the other night. 

“Evan, it's Phryne. I need your help.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Phryne entered Evan's wood panelled office the next morning, he couldn't help be shocked at the change in her appearance. Only three days ago, she'd been her radiant, luminous self, the envy of every man (and likely several women) at the most elegant party of the season. 

Now, her face was drawn, and not even the optimistic swipe of red on her lips could hide the fatigue and anxiety etched into her features. 

“Phryne, darling. Please make yourself comfortable.” 

Evan offered her a deep leather armchair facing his desk, and strode to the door of his office. 

“Emilia, tea please.”

“Very good sir,” Phryne heard a sweet voice outside the door as she took off her cloche and gloves and loosened the fur cowl on her coat. Her fingers brushed over the blue swallow pin, and lingered, tracing its tiny jeweled wing.

“What's happened, Phry? It's not your parents, is it?” Evan took his seat behind the desk, leaning forward on his elbows and regarding Phryne with worried eyes.

“No, no they're fine. Well, as far as I know,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They've stayed at the estate, thank goodness.” They both managed a small smile; Evan was no stranger to the Fishers' tumultuous history. 

“No it's a... a friend, from Melbourne. He boarded a steamer back in November, bound for London. It was to have docked at Southampton on the 19th of December, and since then no one has heard from him.”

Phryne tried to hold his eyes steadily, but found her gaze flickering to her lap, her hands fidgeting with her gloves. 

“I see,” said Evan. He looked up at a slight throat clearing from the door, the girl Emilia having appeared with the tea. “Just here is fine, Emilia. Thank you. And close the door on your way out, please.”

Phryne found she was grateful for the pause in proceedings. It wasn't like her to be so hesitant; though she admitted, none of this had much precedent. 

“And you're thinking...” Evan prompted.

“I don't know. It's just... it's not like him to disappear, especially after coming halfway around the world. I just want to find out where he is.”

Evan added two sugar lumps to his tea, and stirred it thoughtfully.

“Do I take it there is a certain history with this particular friend?” There was no malice or judgement in his tone, and no jealousy either. 

Phryne found she didn't know how to answer.

“He's a... colleague of sorts. A partner, really. Oh I don't know. He's a good deal more than that if I'm honest but I'm sure it's not what you're thinking.” She sighed. “He's a very dear friend, and he came because I asked him to.”

Evan was quiet, studying her face as she stared at her tea. This was indeed a side to Phryne Fisher he hadn't seen before, but he wasn't sure that was a bad thing. 

“I didn't even know he'd set out. And now he's not here, and I find I'm far less the capable intrepid detective than I'd thought. I just want to find he's alright.”

Evan nodded. He'd known her long enough to know her playbook was fixed, and beckoning lovers from across the world didn't figure into it. Whoever this man was, and whatever he was to Phryne Fisher, it wasn't “just” anything.

“Right. I'm happy to do anything I can.” Evan unfolded a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and put them on. He reached for a pencil and a fresh pad of white paper, and then sat forward again. “I'm sure we'd have heard if an entire passenger steamer had capsized, so at least we can rule that out. Let's find out if he disembarked at Southampton, and take it from there.”

Ninety minutes and several phone calls later, they had some good information. Jack Robinson had indeed arrived safely at Southampton dock on the morning of December 18th, one day earlier than planned, thanks to good weather. He hadn't boarded another ship since then, to Australia or elsewhere, at least not in Southampton.

Phryne barely registered a sense of relief that he was safe, almost drowning at the realization that _he hadn't come to her_. Not then, and not in the weeks since. 

Her voice was thin when she spoke after Evan had confirmed the passenger manifest with the harbour master. 

“Right. Well then. I suppose that's as good as we'll get.” She hastily tried to gather her things, hoping to make a restrained exit before she fell apart. She wasn't sure what she'd been hoping to hear, but this wasn't it. How could he have come all this way, only to avoid her at the last minute? It didn't make sense, and something told her there was more to this than a change of heart. 

Something had made him reconsider, and now Jack Robinson was one needle in a haystack as big as the world. Once off the boat, how could she possibly know where he'd gone?

 _That was it._ Phryne didn't know, but perhaps someone else did. 

Phryne spun around before reaching the door. 

“Evan – call the harbour master back, and find out what room Jack was in on board the _Orient_ , and whether he was sharing, or who was travelling in the rooms next door. He wouldn't have been travelling First Class. Maybe they talked, maybe someone knows something – anything – about what he was planning to do upon reaching England.”

She didn't say, “ _Why he changed his mind_ ,” but she was sure her face wasn't hiding much by this point. 

Evan licked his lips, setting his pencil on the desk.

“P, darling, maybe... Are you sure pursuing this is the best idea? I mean, as an independent spirit yourself...” He looked at her, hoping she would acquiesce, but she wasn't going to make it that easy.

He sighed. 

“Sweetheart, perhaps he doesn't want to be found.”

Phryne blinked a few times, feeling like she'd been struck across the face. 

“If he wants to say his goodbyes as soon as we meet,” she said softly, “I'll honour that. But I'm going to find him, whether you help me or not.”

Evan recognized the fire in her eyes, and held up a hand in surrender. 

“I'll give you all the help I can. Come, sit. Let's get Emilia to scrounge up some sandwiches, and see if we can't get a little more information out of that harbour master.”

****

“Welcome home, Miss,” said Damson.

If the butler was alarmed by his mistresses uncharacteristic fatigue he didn't show it, but moments later when he presented her with a healthy tumbler of single malt whiskey and the quiet promise that a hot bath awaited her in her suite, she was grateful for his prescience. 

She sank beneath the milky water, letting the scent of jasmine envelope her completely. She held her breath, her mind flying back suddenly to the mermaid act in Mackenzie's Cavalcade, and of the look in Jack's eyes as he'd realized she was safe. 

_That look_. In a thousand different ways, he had always let her know how he felt. She knew when she'd hurt him, when she'd thrilled him, when she'd worried him, when she'd excited him. Now, he couldn't tell her anything, and she felt more lost than she had since... since she'd lost Janey. 

The realization hit instantly, and she surfaced gasping for breath between sobs, fear and sadness flooding her in equal measure. She couldn't unravel; not again.

And yet this was Jack, and she felt the threads pulling in every direction, gradually exposing more of her, threatening to take her right back to being a powerless child. 

Covering her face with her hands, she breathed through her fingers until the tears stopped. She sat in the bath until the water turned tepid, then rose and wrapped herself in a thick terry robe. She padded downstairs to refill her glass, deciding that maybe the whole decanter wasn't a bad idea. It was certainly one way to ensure sleep. 

Once back in her room, she stoked the fire and curled into the pillows on her bed. Two small pieces of paper lay atop the stack of books on the bedside table. Setting down her tumbler, she reached for them.

The first was written in Evan's tilted Eton scrawl and was just two lines, a pair of names that he'd wrangled from the harbour master: Mr. Edwin Callaghan and Mrs. Angelina Vascari, both of Melbourne. Not terribly much to go on, but Evan had suggested calling a friend at the Australian consulate in London, and seeing if either party had registered their travel plans. With any luck, they could track one down. Phryne made a note to herself to look into railway tickets out of Southampton the following morning. They might even find Jack's trail, if he'd moved on but stayed in England. 

The second paper was an answering telegram from Dot, who once again amazed Phryne in her initiative: the woman must have sent the wire well before dawn. 

INSP TOOK 6 MONTHS LEAVE stop HE LOVES YOU MISS stop PLEASE FIND HIM stop DC 

Phryne pressed the paper to her chest, and took a long drink of her father's whiskey. Suddenly, she felt very, very small. 

*****

The next morning, Phryne was woken by the maid, Deirdre, tapping relentlessly on her bedroom door.

“Miss? Er, Miss? There's another telephone call from Mister Darling, and he's called twice already.”

Phryne groaned. She pushed herself upright, realizing as she did so that she was still wrapped in the white bathrobe, rather than the indigo silk nightgown Deidre had set out for her.

“I'll be right down. Tell him not to ring off!” She tightened the sash around her waist and slid her feet into satin bedroom slippers before rushing down the stairs.

“Evan?”

“So sorry, P, didn't mean to disrupt your morning so terribly. I got what I think is a promising response from the consulate fellow I was telling you about, though. Unfortunately, no Jack Robinson on any of the rail manifests for the day the ship docked, or the next. Our Mr. Callaghan seems to have boarded another ship for Ireland straight from Southampton, so he won't be much help, but apparently Mrs. Vascari is happily ensconced at the Gloucester hotel here in London.”

“Evan, you're wonderful! I believe I need to pay Mrs. Vascari a visit. I'll call the hotel directly. I really am grateful, darling.”

“No thanks needed. Let me know if there's anything else. Goodbye.”

Phryne heard the click of the line as he rung off. 

“Deirdre, I'm going to need the new navy ensemble today, if you please! And the white coat.”

“Yes Miss!” came the chipper reply from over the upstairs balustrade. “Will you be taking a full breakfast this morning?”

“I believe I will, Deirdre; it's going to be a full day!”

Phryne bounded up the stairs with a renewed vigour. Jack may be missing, but where there were clues, there was hope, and he couldn't have simply vanished. And if he was choosing to avoid her, well, she'd have to cross that bridge when she got there. 

***

As it happened, Mrs. Angelina Vascari, of 74 Tullmaree Drive in Melbourne was only too happy to join a fellow Australian for tea. Turned out her son, Paolo, had been delayed joining her from his trip visiting family in Rome, and she was at loose ends until he arrived. 

“He's taking me on a train journey,” the older woman said proudly, as the waiter withdrew their menus. Phryne had insisted they take tea at the Palm Court Room at the Ritz, and was delighted that Mrs. Vascari hadn't put up much of a fight. 

“So beautiful!” the older woman had exclaimed as they were ushered in, her soft Italian accent elongating the vowels of the words like toffee.

“My treat, and I'm happy to have someone to share it with. I am very grateful for your help, Mrs. Vascari. It's about a friend, the man I asked you about on the telephone.”

“Please, not _Missus_. Call me Angelina. Yes, I know that man, Mr. Robinson.”

The title caught Phryne off guard. _Mister_ Robinson; of course. He wouldn't have used his professional honourific outside Australia, but Phryne found it jarring to hear him referred to as anything other than Inspector. 

“Yes, Jack Robinson. I understand he had the room adjacent to yours on the voyage?”

Phryne smiled as a young waitress with thick blond plaits tucked up at the nape of her neck and a white lace cap set a towering stand of tarts, sandwiches, and cakes on the table in front of them. 

“Please, help yourself,” said Phryne, smiling as the Mrs. Vascari clasped her hands to her chest.

“ _Que bella!_ Too beautiful to eat!”

“Hardly,” said Phryne with a wink, and popped a tiered pink petit-four into her mouth all at once. 

Mrs. Vascari giggled, and reached for the silver tongs. 

“ _Si_. He was in 344, I was in 346. But it was strange,” she said, her hand pausing in mid air halfway through lifting a lemon tart onto her plate, “after we stop one time, I did not see him any more, and it was a different man in the room. I thought, 'Maybe he get off?' But he had told me he was going to England, like me.” She shook her head, her eyes wide, and shrugged. 

Phryne frowned. 

“I beg your pardon, but do you mean that at a stop, a port of call, someone else took Jack- Mr. Robinson's room?”

“ _Si_ , yes, I think so. But then something very strange. The last day, when the porters come and tell you when they going to collect your luggage, they call through the door, ' _Mister Robinson_ ,' just like before, and I hear that man say, Yes!” She gave another exaggerated shrug, and looked at Phryne. 

Phryne's head was spinning. If Jack had disembarked en route, and someone had taken his place, perhaps even his identity, then the Jack Robinson confirmed to have landed in Southampton was an imposter. And her Jack was nowhere to be found. 

“Mrs. Vascari – Angelina, please, what port of call was it? It's very important.”

Angelina frowned slightly, staring at the carpet as she thought. 

“Hmmm...” She poked her finger into the air in front of her a few times. “ _Si, si_ , yes. It was after the canal, so Port Said; I am sure of it. I did not go off the boat that day, but I remember we had the most delicious _melograno_... how it is said... pomp- pome-” 

“Pomegranates?” Phryne guessed.

“ _Si!_ Pomegranates – for dessert that night, and Mr. Jones, at my table, said he had seen them all over the town. Port Said. Yes.”

Phryne chewed on her lip. _Port Said_...

“There is something wrong? With your Mr. Robinson?”

“Yes,” Phryne nodded, “I think there is. And whatever it was, it happened more than a month ago...”

Suddenly lightheaded, Phryne excused herself to the ladies' room, and collapsed, shaking onto a broad pink divan in the sitting room.

What had Jack gotten himself into?

A few minutes and several splashes of cold water later, Phryne settled back beside Angelina, apologizing for her absence. 

Mrs. Vascari set down her tea cup, and turned on the padded banquette to face Phryne. 

“ _Mia cara_ , you are worried about your Mr. Robinson; I can see that. I am sorry to tell you things that make you scared. I could see he was a good man, a kind man.” She laughed suddenly, one wrinkled hand coming up to cover her mouth. “He was so helpful the first day on the boat, I became so lost in the corridor, I could not even find the stairs!” She shook her head at herself. 

“But your Mr. Robinson, he hold out his arm to me like he was my sweetheart, and lead me all the way to the dining room himself. Can you imagine? My sweetheart!” She laughed again at the memory, and Phryne felt her throat close. 

“That does sound like my Mr. Robinson, Angelina. He is... he's very special” she said softly.

“ _Cara_ , you will find him.”

Phryne pressed her lips together and nodded. 

“Angelina, can you tell me everything you remember about the man who came later, the man who took Mr. Robinson's room?”

She saw the woman's face darken slightly as she recalled the imposter.

“ _Si_. He was _not_ a gentleman like your Jack Robinson. Not even a smile when I meet him in the hall. And it is a long journey! No reason not to be kind.”

“What about his appearance... Tall, short, fair, dark...” She thought of something suddenly. “Did he have an accent? Australian, maybe?”

“Hm. He was tall, maybe a little taller I think than your Mr. Robinson. But skinny, like a weed. And his clothes were not good. They did not fit him well, not like Mr. Robinson,” she grinned. “His hair was very pale, and like - ,” she mimed pushing hair back off her forehead, and looked to Phryne for understanding. 

“Slicked back, off his face?” Phryne asked.

“No no, like, no hair soon,” said Angelina. 

“Oh! His hair was receding? He was going bald! Good! How old was he?”

Angelina frowned, thinking hard.

“Maybe 30, maybe 40, maybe more, maybe less. I don't know. Everyone looks young to me now!” She laughed easily and Phryne smiled as she leaned forward to pour more tea. 

“And was he Australian?” Perhaps someone from Jack's past, someone with a grudge. She suppressed a shudder as the realization that in the course of his career, Jack had no doubt made a very long list of enemies. 

“No, _Cara_ , I don't think so. More, like here. English. Very -” She sat up stiffly and pulled her face into a long mask, her mouth turning down severely and her eyebrows reaching into her grey curls. 

Phryne giggled. 

“Definitely English,” she whispered conspiratorially. 

“Angelina, this is more than I'd hoped. Is there anything else you remember about the man? His voice, something he said, what he wore. No matter how small, it might be very helpful.”

“ _Si_ , there is one thing. His hand.” She held up her right hand and wiggled it a few times in the air between them. “He had a bandage on it, much of the journey.”

“An injury perhaps,” said Phryne, and her gut tightened. A bandage could have meant a struggle, and a struggle meant nothing good.

 _Just follow the evidence, Phryne Fisher. Do what Jack would do._

“Anything else?” She tried to keep her voice steady and reassuring, the way she might for a witness back home. 

“I am afraid not, _mia cara_. I am too old. I don't always remember everything.” Angelina's eyes were tender as she shook her head. 

“On the contrary,” said Phryne softly. “You've given me more than I'd imagined. Thank you.”

Angelina placed her hand on Phryne's, and gave it a squeeze. 

“I think you will find him,” she said with a decisive nod. “You love him, and you will find him.”

Phryne tried to manage an enigmatic smile, but failed utterly, and turned instead to flag down the waiter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank all of you enough, for reading, for commenting, for telling me to hurry the *%%$ up ;) It means more than you know. And *ahem*, I am so, so sorry for breaking Jack... All I can say is... here's another chapter?

Phryne drove Mrs. Vascari back her her modest hotel, and headed straight for Evan's office. Bestowing a glittering smile on the unsuspecting Emilia, she swept past the front desk and into the office.

“I've got to go to Egypt.”

“Hello to you, too,” said Evan, removing his spectacles and rising to meet her. “Egypt... Oh! New information about Mr. Robinson?”

“Yes, and none of it good. Apparently he was _replaced_ on the ship after they docked in Port Said, and somehow no one except an old Italian woman was any the wiser!”

Phryne flung herself into one of the guest chairs, and tore off her hat. 

Evan crossed to a bar cart in the corner and uncapped a crystal decanter, pouring two generous glasses.

Handing one to Phryne, he perched on the edge of his desk. 

“Replaced? As in, someone boarded and masqueraded as your Inspector for the remainder of the voyage?”

“It appears that is exactly what happened, right down to likely wearing Jack's clothes! How could that even occur? Wouldn't _someone_ recognize the man calling himself Jack Robinson as a completely different human being?” Phryne didn't miss Evan's discrete glance at his closed door, and gave him an apologetic look. 

“Sorry. I'll be quieter. But I don't understand – how could this happen?” Her eyes rested on her whiskey. “And where is Jack?”

“No, I agree,” said Evan. “If the man continued using Robinson's name, I can't see it lasting the whole voyage. Someone would have to have made the connection.” 

Phryne took a deep drink, and then tilted her head. 

“Unless he didn't use Jack's name...”

Evan frowned. “I don't follow.”

“He used Jack's name, likely even his passport, to be allowed back on the ship, and someone with that name was registered at Southampton when they docked. But if, while on board, he only used Jack's _cabin_ , perhaps claiming to anyone who enquired that he and Jack had swapped, he could have used his own name, or more likely a pseudonym, and no one would be the wiser.”

“But wouldn't someone have noticed Jack was no longer on the ship?” said Evan.

“Not necessarily. Even if they missed him at dinner, say, his absence could be easily explained away: he might have taken ill, he might be dining at a different hour.”

“But Phryne, a journey like that is long weeks stuck with the same people. You get to know them. You get involved with life on board. Surely someone would have raised the alarm when a charming Australian suddenly evaporates.”

Phryne's smile was sad.

“Not everyone lives right in the middle of things, Evan...” Her voice trailed off, and she saw Jack, clear as if it were yesterday, leaning on the doorway to her parlour, toasting her birthday and her bravery. She wished it wasn't so, but if Jack had mostly kept to himself on the voyage, it was entirely possible no one would have missed him.

Where was he now? What could possibly have happened to prevent him from reaching out to her, to Hugh and Dot, to anyone?

Phryne hated the speed at which her mind reduced the options to only three possibilities: The first was that Jack was incapacitated, and unable to get help; the second was that he was somehow involved, and was not lost, but hiding; and the third was that it was too late, and he was... She wished the word didn't settle so heavily in her heart. He would not, could not, be gone. 

_Evidence, Phryne, follow the facts_. She almost smiled, realizing that her inner sage was even starting to speak in Jack's voice. “Follow the evidence, and see where it leads. Speculation is not police work, Miss Fisher.”

_Alright then Jack, what next?_

“Sorry?” Evan's voice took her by surprise and Phryne realized she'd spoken out loud. 

“Nothing. No, not nothing. I need to get to Port Said, but my plane isn't fit for it.” The journey to bring her father home had taken its toll on her little Gypsy Moth, and she'd accepted the first offer she'd received for it, from one of the mechanics at the airfield when she landed. 

“But I can't afford to take three weeks to get there, Evan. I need a plane, or I need a pilot with room.”

Evan considered the woman sitting before him. He wouldn't have dreamt of challenging her determination to go and investigate, but he knew that if she was right, and something had happened to Jack Robinson, it might be both dangerous and devastating. He only hesitated a moment before speaking. 

“Then I'll go with you.”

Phryne looked up at him in surprise, and he could almost see the retort forming in her throat. 

“Phryne, I'm not asking. I'm coming with you. Not because you need protection, and not because I don't think you should go. I'm going because maybe I can help, and maybe you'll need a friend. That's all.” He paused, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And you can't get there without my help, so no arguments.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darling, I am perfectly capable of finding my own passage -” 

“Phryne, I was kidding! About the part where you needed my help, at least, not the part where it's yours like it or not.”

Phryne scowled at him, but there wasn't much behind it. Finally she softened, and nodded. 

“Truth is, I'd be grateful for the company. But wait... You don't fly.”

“No, I do not, but I imagine I can rustle us up a lift courtesy of the British Diplomatic Service. After all, we are looking into shady activities possibly perpetrated by a British citizen...”

Phryne sat bolt upright. 

“Evan that's it!”

“Sorry?” 

“Why would someone take Jack's place on the ship? There are dozens of ships passing by Port Said bound for England every month, even every week! It isn't as if it would be hard to book passage on one. So the man who did either couldn't wait, or couldn't book passage as himself! He needed another identity, perhaps quickly, in order to leave Egypt and return to England.”

Evan pondered this for a moment, his eyes on Phryne. He could see the lightening-fast wheels turning in her mind and was struck, not for the first time, how explosively clever this woman was. 

“Perhaps, P, but you can't know that...”

“But it all fits. Why would someone risk such a thing – risk being discovered on the ship, risk their cover being blown once they reached England, unless it was urgent that they leave Egypt, and they had no other way to do it?”

“But you're assuming your friend Robinson wasn't otherwise involved. Is that wise, P? I mean, I sympathize with you, not wanting to assume he was involved with anything nefarious, but it wouldn't even have to mean that. Perhaps he simply changed his mind, and let this gentleman use the remainder of his passage.”

Phryne set her jaw and looked at Evan, her eyes flashing. 

“Jack Robinson is the least deceitful, most noble man I've ever met. There is no way he would swap identities with someone, and there's no way he was into anything crooked. Whatever happened, it wasn't Jack's doing.”

The steam seemed to go out of her at that, and she sat back in her chair, swirling the whiskey in her glass. 

“And I have to believe that he wouldn't just disappear without word. Even if he had changed his mind.”

“Perhaps we should check the British hospital in Port Said.”

Phryne was grateful she was sitting down. It was all becoming so real, and nothing they were learning was making her feel more hopeful about Jack. She nodded numbly.

“Phryne, you said yourself, let's just follow the evidence. I'll ask the consulate to call the hospital before they wire me back. If a foreigner was found... in need of assistance, that's where he'd be taken. There might be a John Doe healthy and ready to go as we speak.”

Phryne bit her lip. “You're sweet, Evan. But if Jack were alright, why hasn't he contacted anyone?”

_Why hasn't he contacted me?_

She took a small sip of her drink, then held the glass to her chest. “I'm so afraid, Evan. None of this makes sense, not unless something terrible happened. I think I liked it better when I thought he'd ditched me.”

“No you didn't.”

“No. I didn't.” Tears she had fought to hold off flowed freely.

Evan reached forward, taking hold of her glass and setting it on the desk. He held out his hand, and Phryne took it, standing and letting herself be enfolded in his arms.

“We'll find him, P. We'll fly as soon as I can make arrangements, and we'll find the answers. Why don't you go home, and I'll make some calls. There's a bloke at transport who owes me a favour. I'll call you as soon as I have news.”

*****

_Port Said, Egypt_

Each day, Jack spent the hours between his meagre meals trying to piece together what had happened, but beyond the ship docking at Port Said, and deciding to take the day's stop to explore the city, he remembered only flashes. 

A fight. A fair man in a light suit, his face grotesque in Jack's mind, calm and civil even as he came at him. _Why?_ What grudge could a man Jack had never met hold against him, and why couldn't he remember?

The young woman now occasionally spoke to him in lilting English, her accent thick but her vocabulary good. She told him of the day outside, the weather, the ships that were in the harbour. She praised his healing, and said she thought he'd soon be able walk. 

Jack was grateful, but the stress at not being able to speak, not even to use his right hand to write, was threatening to drive him mad. As he lay in the dark one night, the sound of the woman's even breathing from behind the wooden screen punctuated by the knocking of a nearby shutter in a breeze, he wondered if anyone even knew he was missing. He had a sudden image of Phryne in a room of admirers, her eyes twinkling at something someone said. She wouldn’t know he was missing, because she hadn’t known he was due. 

Another image flashed into his mind. He was sitting at a sidewalk cafe, under a canvas umbrella. He was drinking from a tall glass, something pale and tangy... Suddenly his mouth was flooded with the memory of the taste: lemon and mint; icy, sweet, and tart enough to make the insides of his cheeks tingle. He'd removed his hat in the shade of the umbrella and pulled out a packet of postcards he'd just bought outside the ancient lighthouse. And then.... The man from his visions... But when had they met?

Jack lay back against the pillow, scrunching his eyes shut and forcing his muscles to relax. 

An image of a narrow alley, tan stone on both sides, dark and mercifully cool. He wasn't afraid, wasn't nervous.... The balding man was there, talking, walking ahead of him, turning now and then to ensure Jack was following. He couldn't recall anything the man had said, or why he had gone with him.

Frustrated, he tried instead to focus on the man's face. _Had he known him? Was he a friend, a colleague, some crim he'd put away?_ He was sweating with the effort of remembering, yet nothing made sense. He'd never seen the man before, he'd swear. 

And then.... Where did the horrific images come in? The blood and fire, the screaming? 

His own breath masked the sound of the woman stirring, and he was startled when she emerged from the dim. 

“Rest. Sleep,” she said softly.

Jack licked his lips and shook his head, hoping she could see it in the dark.

The woman bent to pick up a glass of water from the floor near Jack's head, and held it to his lips. He drank, then tried again.

“Wh- wh- what....” he winced, swallowing fire. “Hap-pened?”

He could just make out her large eyes in the gloom, and saw a shadow flit across them. 

“P- please.”

She was still a moment, then nodded. Pulling her skirts around her, she lowered herself onto the floor beside him, and bent her head.

“There was a man,” she began. “A wicked man. He killed my sister, and he tried to kill you.”

Jack watched her as she proceeded to spin a terrible story of abuse and privilege, and a man the woman and her sister called the _Masakh_. The sisters had come to the port city to earn money, to send back to their mother in Cairo. Their father had been killed in an accident at work, and with 11 mouths to feed, their mother was unable to cope. The two eldest, although female, left the family home and came to Port Said where their cousin had an empty flat. They secured work in the British hospital as orderlies. They were good jobs, and the women were not only were grateful for the work, they enjoyed it. 

One day, men in fine suits appeared, walking the halls of the hospital like it belonged to them. Several of the men worked in Port Said, Englishmen from the British Consulate, who oversaw the hospital. But there were two men, also English, who were new to the city, and who gave the women chills up the backs of their necks from the first time they locked eyes. 

The woman’s voice lowered as she continued. 

“They were here in charge of building an addition to the hospital, which was badly needed. They would remain here for months, with offices in the hospital. All the staff, from the surgeons down to the ones who swept the floors, were told to give them whatever they asked. The dark one, he was hard and never spoke. But the fair one, the one with hair like cobwebs….” Her voice trailed off. 

Apparently he asked a lot, especially from the female staff, and especially the local girls. The woman was getting more uncomfortable the more she spoke, and years of interviewing survivors of trauma told Jack it was time to stop for tonight.

He held up his functioning hand, and she raised her eyes to his. He nodded gently, closing his eyes as he did so, hoping she'd understand. 

“Later,” he whispered.

She pursed her lips, then smiled gratefully. Rising, she held up the water in a silent question, before helping him drink again. 

Neither spoke as they settled into their own beds, eyes wide open, sleep a long way off. 

*****

When Jack opened his eyes the next morning, it took a moment to realize something was different. His throat felt thick, but not searingly sore, and he gingerly tried clearing it gently. Still painful, but only about as much as the worst sore throat he'd ever has as a kid, which was a definite improvement.

Better still, he found, after the woman cleaned and redressed his wounds, he could actually sit up. 

She had draped his uninjured arm around her shoulders, carefully swivelling his body as she tilted him upright. They were both warm and breathing hard by the time they stopped, but for the first time in weeks, Jack was looking at the world right side-up.

At first he was nauseatingly dizzy, and she propped a cushion behind his head, encouraging him to close his eyes and breath slowly. Gradually, the room stopped spinning and he was able to raise his head, feeling more like himself than he had since the attack. 

After a delicious breakfast of dates and a soft porridge with honey (it wasn't oats, but he was pretty sure even his Scottish mother would have liked it), which Jack was actually able to eat more or less successfully on his own, he watched as the woman washed the few dishes.

He wondered if she would be able to continue her story. She knew the perpetrator, or so it seemed, but Jack still had no idea how he'd ended up here. 

He looked down, realizing he was finally in a position to examine his wounds. His right hand was still wrapped completely in an ivory cloth, which she changed every two days. He raised the hand to his nose, inhaling. _Honey?_ He frowned, staring at the bound hand. Perhaps he was mistaken.

He lowered his arm, and experimentally wiggled the loosely wrapped fingers. All of them seemed to move, and with much less pain than before. He breathed a sigh of relief.

His chest was still a constant ache, sometimes more. There were nights he still woke in a sweat, unable to move for the pain, but those times were fewer and farther between, and he was hopeful the wound, whatever it was, was healing clean. He seemed to have shed the fever of his early days, and figured that was nothing but a good sign. 

As he looked down at the lashed bandages around his chest, he wondered if he wanted to know what was under them. He wore a loose kaftan made of light cotton, the slashed neckline having been cut further to expose his chest. He supposed it wasn't much different than a regular hospital gown, but he felt self-conscious nonetheless. 

He was suddenly aware of the woman watching him. She stood, her back to the wash basin, her hands worrying the sash on her robe. Her eyes were steady, but there was a wariness Jack hadn't seen before, and he was immediately uncomfortable. Her headscarf, he knew, meant she was an observant Muslim, and though he didn't know much about the faith, he imagined it was certainly no _less_ formal than his own culture when it came to unmarried men and women being alone together. Until now, she had been his nurse, and he had been a body in need of care. Now, it seemed, they were on the precipice of becoming people, and the implications were as heavy in the air as incense. 

Jack once again tried clearing his throat, wincing slightly. The response seemed to shift her back into the role of nurse, and she poured a fresh glass of water from a jug on the table. 

Jack grasped it in his left hand, his eyes grateful, but not lingering long on hers. He drank deeply, then rested the glass on his thigh. The woman retreated to a chair at the small table, and sat, her hands in her lap. 

Jack drew his knees together, suddenly aware of the length (or lack thereof) of the kaftan, and his pale, bare legs. Sipping the water again, he steadied himself, and looked up. 

“Please,” he rasped.

Her eyes flickered up and down, and she nodded. 

“My sister, she was very beautiful,” she began. 

Like you, Jack thought, and instantly regretted it.

“She and I both, and others, our friends, women who worked in the hospital, we knew he was... how to say it.... _khatir_. Not safe.” Her eyes remained trained on her fingers in her lap.

“Dangerous,” said Jack, his voice a rough scratch.

She nodded. 

“He enjoyed the company of women, and desired the company of Egyptian women, young women. Like us. But we are Muslim,” she said softly. 

“At first we thought it an honour – he was important, and he saw us. Many foreigners do not. We are like the walls. And he said he wanted us to work with him, in his office.” She trailed off, and Jack wished Phryne was there, her candid attention and warmth making the woman feel safe. The thought of her derailed his attention, and the bottom seemed to drop out of his stomach. Jack struggled to regain his focus. He owed it to the young woman in front of him to give her his full attention, though he dreaded the moments later when nothing would stand between him and thoughts of Phryne. 

When the woman spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. 

“One day, he asked my sister to stay and visit him in the office he used at the hospital when she was finished her work.”

Jack waited. A minute went by before she spoke. 

“He was very strong. I never saw her again.”

Her eyes were dry, though her voice and her hands trembled. Jack moistened his lips, and spoke softly.

“He had hurt her before.”

She nodded, never lifting her eyes. 

“She had been afraid. I said I would go instead, but she said she was the older sister.” She smiled, a sweet, sad, smile. “She was my protector, but I could not be hers.”

Neither spoke for a few minutes and Jack tried to piece together the missing parts of the story.

“My cousin, who gives us this flat, and found for us the jobs at the hospital, he is an aide for the nurses. He heard of a woman dead, found in the man’s office, and ran to see. When he saw my sister, he came here to me, and made me promise not to go back. I thought I would die from weeping.”

“I am... so sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” she said plainly. “It is his.”

Jack nodded. 

“Our family would not bury her.”

At first, Jack was confused, and then a cold realization dawned on him. He clenched his jaw.

“I did not go back to the hospital. Four days later, my cousin is in the Mansheya Square. He had told me the _Masakh_ was nowhere – not at the hospital, and no one had seen him. Then my cousin, Faheem, is in the square and, and he sees him, the _Masakh_. He follows him.”

Jack tried to shift on the cot, but the pain in his chest made it hard to do so.

“He sees the man walk to a cafe in the square. There is another man there, another man like him. He sees the _Masakh_ talk to the other man, then they rise and leave the square.” She looked at Jack, her eyes steady. 

Jack touched his left hand to his chest. 

_Me._

She nodded. 

“My cousin follows down the small streets, and then he sees the _Masakh_ take a long knife and a bottle from his jacket. He is not saying anything. He reaches forward and puts the knife into the chest of... into your chest. My cousin is very afraid, but he does not leave. The _Masakh_ , he takes the papers from your coat, and then he does an even more terrible thing.”

Her voice was small, and Jack knew she was afraid of upsetting him by telling him more. He wished he could tell her he was alright, that she couldn't hurt him more with the truth. 

“ _Please_.” 

“The bottle had fuel in it, and a cloth in the top. He lit the cloth with a match, and threw the bottle hard against your chest, where he had used the knife.”

A sheen of sweat broke out on Jack's skin in spite of himself.

“The fire burst from the bottle and was climbing you. The _Masakh_ ran, taking your papers, and leaving you in the empty street. My cousin ran to you, and used his own _galabeya_ – his tunic – to dull the flames. Your hand,” she nodded at his lap, “was burnt trying to put out the fire.”

Even with his eyes open, flashes of memory assaulted him. The knife was long, with a handle of ivory.... He remembered the bottle; remembered absurdly wondering at the time if the man was going to offer him a drink, after having just stabbed him. And then the flames, instant, angry, were licking his chest and his face, and he threw his head back against the stone wall behind him in an instinct to keep it away from the fire. 

He remembered nothing else. 

“My cousin carried you here. He was afraid to bring you to the hospital, afraid the _Masakh_ was still powerful and that he would know. So he brought you here, to me. We are already disgraced; it did not matter. My mother is a healer, and at the hospital I watched. Sometimes I would would imagine myself a doctor,” she said with a shy smile. “My cousin brought supplies – bandages, medicine for your pain.”

She shifted in her chair, and looked out the window for a few minutes. 

“I was afraid, at first, that you were like him, a friend or... But when I saw what you had in your hand, the one that was not burned, I was sure you were not.”

Jack looked confused, and she rose, crossing the room to a small bookcase that stood near the door. She opened a wooden box on the top shelf and withdrew a small packet of folded papers. She moved to the bed, and handed them to Jack.

There were blood stains on the edges, nearly soaking through the bottom sheets. Jack's hand began to shake as he tried to steady the packet on his lap and undo the small ribbon that tied them together. 

Then he remembered: the cafe, the lemonade, the strange Englishman who approached and asked for his help. (Jack had introduced himself as Jack Robinson, not, “Detective Inspector”, and it had still sounded strange to his ears, even after weeks on the ship doing the same.) He remembered putting away the new postcards and the thin sheets of airmail paper he was using to write a letter, and the photograph, its edges softened with handling, of the bewitching woman with a shiny black bob, fingers looped round her sparkling eyes. 

Now, his heart slammed against his wound from the inside, forcing tears into his eyes with every blow. The fight came back to him in violent detail. After he’d wiped the blade of the knife on Jack’s own sleeve, the man had grabbed the entire contents of Jack’s pocket when he'd reached into the inside of his linen jacket. Jack remembered his face, pale and passive, rifling through the stack and tossing the letters and photograph onto the dirt beside him. Jack watched his wallet, his passport and his room key disappear into the man's coat, and a clear bottle of liquid being drawn out. 

He'd lain on the ground, collapsed awkwardly against a wall, and used the strength he could find to reach forward and gather the papers, crushing them into his hand as he struggled to breath through the blood filling his lungs.

He looked down now, tears flowing freely. The woman had covered his hand with hers, and lifted it gently to the side, before unlacing the red ribbon. The papers stuck together with blood, but Jack only cared about one.

The woman stood and moved to the door, picking up a basket from the floor and adjusting her head scarf. Without turning around to him, she spoke. 

“I am going to the market. I will not be long.”

As he heard the door close, Jack's fingers found the edges of what he was looking for, and carefully slipped in between it and the papers above and below to free it from the bond of blood. 

When the woman returned an hour later, he was asleep, the photograph of a beautiful woman held face down against his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

Telegram for Mrs. Dorothy Anne Collins  
c/o 221B the Esplanade  
Melbourne, Victoria

DIJR MISSING stop FLYING TO CAIRO JAN 6 stop JACK NEVER REBOARDED PORT SAID NOV 29 stop WILL WIRE WITH HOTEL stop HPF

As luck would have it, the first flight of the year on the much-lauded British Imperial Airline was departing London for India and points in between in three days' time. The seats were secured by Evan, their extravagant price tags not balked at by either himself or Phryne. Phryne would rather have flown herself instead of being cooped up in a flying tin carriage with 18 other “toffs”, as Bert would have said, but she had to admit a curiosity about the glamorous airline. Champagne service, impeccably appointed sleeping berths and even in-flight motion picture screenings made it hard to be ambivalent about the prospect, even if the fare was considerable. 

“We depart Thursday, P; I couldn't get anything earlier. That brings us into Cairo by Sunday, barring bad weather, and then it's about a couple of hours drive to Port Said. We might even be there before dark. I've hired a car to meet us at the landing strip in Cairo, so we can leave directly. Unless you'd rather rest a night and leave in the morning?”

Phryne was on the phone in the hallway of the townhouse, a raft of maps and handwritten notes covering the long dining room table behind her. 

“No, absolutely not. We push on to Port Said that night, even if it means getting in late. I'll make hotel arrangements. And Evan,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

Phryne hung up the phone and stood in the doorway a moment, her mind rearranging itself around the new information. She had three days in London before they left, and packing would only take part of one. She needed to see if she could find out anything more about this balding mystery man. Maybe he, like Angelina, had travelled to London after docking. But was there any hope in tracking down a ghost with no name in a city of millions? 

“Not much,” Phryne said out loud. “But.... a city of couple of hundred thousand narrows it down a little...” She spun on her heel and hollered at the bottom of the stairs.

“Deirdre? I'm going to need a bag packed!” She paused. “Well, several actually, but one immediately!”

She was halfway up the stairs when the girl's dark head popped over the railing again.

“Certainly, Miss? Where are you off to and for how long?”

“Well, that's a multi-part answer, but let's start with today. I'm driving to Southampton and staying at least overnight, possibly two nights. Nothing terribly fancy, I don't imagine, although it's always prudent to be prepared for anything. Definitely pack the longer wool coat, the navy one, and the black jumper; it'll be awfully chilly at the coast.” Phryne rounded the banister and chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail. 

“And while I'm away, I'm going to need you to pack two larger bags, but as light as possible, as we're going by air.”

“Where to, Miss?” The girl's eyes were bright as she waiting for Phryne's answer. 

“Egypt. I leave Thursday.”

“Oh Miss, that's frightfully exciting! So exotic and glamorous...”

Phryne paused a moment in the doorway of her suite. It must sound that way, mustn't it. She moved to the bed and began folding the silk nightgown lying there. 

“I wish it were, Deirdre, but it's not a holiday, I'm afraid. I have case.... and, well...” Her voice trailed off, and she suddenly missed Dot terribly. 

Deirdre stopped on her path to Phryne's walk-in wardrobe, and turned to look at her employer. Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet when she spoke. 

“A very difficult case, Miss?”

“Yes.” Phryne's hands paused in their work. “It's... personal. Someone I care about is missing, and I'm hoping I'll find him there.”

Deirdre seemed mute in the face of such unprecedented candour from her mistress.

“I'll have that first bag packed for you in no time, Miss.”

***

Phryne reached her hotel in Southampton in well under the suggested 3 hour drive time. She did miss her beloved Hispano, but she had to admit, the Alfa Romeo was divine. Baron Fisher never took the car to the country, and it was so much more convenient than the train.

Besides, what Henry didn't know wouldn't hurt him. 

Southampton wasn't any prettier than she remembered it from the times she'd been here before, first as a scrappy tomboy, uncomfortable in a new starched pinafore, and finally as a strong and elegant woman of means, crossing the world to seek justice for her sister. It was still a town of transience, of travellers and temporary workers, all dreaming of somewhere else. Not even the hulking grey buildings in the centre could make it feel settled. It seemed to Phryne a dock in the shape of a town, and seemed to urge everyone to pass through and move on. 

She pulled up in front of the Dolphin Hotel and a liveried valet immediately appeared to help her from the car. He couldn't have been more than 20, but he was tall and fair with lovely eyes and admirably broad shoulders. 

“Welcome to the Dolphin Hotel, Miss...”

“Fisher, Miss Phryne Fisher. I have a reservation.” Phryne tilted her head coquettishly and thought about taking his arm, but she found her heart wasn't in it remotely. 

“Very good, Miss Fisher,” said the young man, escorting her to the 16th century carriage arch that marked the front entrance of the hotel. “I'll have your bags brought up to your room directly.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, still somewhat off balance. Not a holiday indeed, she thought.

Phryne settled into her room quickly, freshening up in the en suite and changing into a pair of black trousers, her thick jumper, and a long, warm wool coat. A dark green scarf and plain matching cloche made her look put together but not too showy. The only jewelry she put on was the little blue bird on her collar. She stowed her pistol in her handbag mostly out of habit; she didn't really expect to find anything more dangerous than a name on a list here, but better safe than sorry. 

“Pardon me, but I wonder if you might offer directions to Southampton Station?” Phryne batted her eyelashes at the gentleman behind the front desk.

“Are you leaving us so soon, Miss Fisher? I do hope everything in your suite is to your liking? If not, I'll personally take full responsibility and see that it's made right.” His manner was more obsequious than sincere, and Phryne forced herself to continue smiling.

“No, no, everything with the hotel is lovely, thank you. I promised a friend I would pick up some timetables and see enquire about passage to Wales. She's always wanted to visit that part of the country.”

“Well there's no need for you to do any of that yourself, Miss Fisher! We would be honoured to send someone to enquire on your behalf and fetch the schedules. Why don't you relax in the library with a sherry before dinner? There are often games of cards ongoing with the other guests of the hotel.”

The man made to summon a footman standing near the doors, but Phryne stopped him with a wave of her hand.

“How very kind of you, Mister.....”

“Stevens,” the man beamed. “Albert Stevens, Hotel Concierge.”

“Mr. Stevens. But I find after a long drive, a good walk is just the thing to clear my head, don’t you? The directions, if you'd be so kind?”

Albert Stevens remained unconvinced at her decision, but swallowed his objections with practised ease and pulled out a small map of the area, marking the station in pen. 

“Surely I can at least call a taxi for you, Miss Fisher? The wind is coming up, and it looks like we're in for a bit of weather tonight...”

“You are so very, very kind, Mr. Stevens,” Phryne effused, “But I assure you I'll be fine; it's a short walk. And no need to reserve a table for me for dinner; I'll have something sent up to my rooms when I return. Good evening.”

Crossing the dark-panelled lobby, she caught sight of a gilt-framed portrait of a young woman, and a small brass plaque beneath it. She recognized the woman immediately. 

_Portrait of Jane Austen, who celebrated her 18th birthday in this hotel, 1793._

Phryne smiled. Jack had once told her his mother had read Austen to him when he was young, and he still treasured a volume of _Pride and Prejudice_ that she'd given him. Phryne knew his love of history, and knew he'd love to stay in the same inn the author had, over a hundred and fifty years later. The thought had her suddenly swallowing tears. She gripped her handbag tighter, and walked out into the dove grey of early evening. 

_Sentimentality will do you no good whatsoever, Phryne. Evidence. Facts. Work the case._

Phryne was about halfway to the station before she began to regret her decision to walk; the wind was indeed picking up, with the kind of exaggerated vigour it seemed only to muster at the coast. She turned up the collar of her long wool coat and pressed on, glad she'd brought some cash for a return cab. 

Daylight had faded to a wolfish grey by the time she reached the docks, the pale, neoclassical Terminus Station buffeting the town behind it against the chaos of the port. Phryne paused outside the station, and turned right instead, picking her way towards the nearest expanse of water beside a long, wide pier. 

The harbour thrummed with activity, even at this time of evening. Two great steamer ships were in port, awaiting new passengers bound for abroad, and three hulking cargo vessels were lined up like Hugh's toy cars along the far Eastern dock. Everywhere, there were the dockworkers, men she mused looked much the same the world over, at least to her eyes: hardened, hardworking, and happy to keep to themselves. 

She held her cloche to her head as she slowed at the edge of the water. Even the sea was different in England: colder, brinier, darker. It even smelled different. She thought of the beach near her home in St. Kildas, wild and cantankerous one morning, gentle as a December day another. It was fickle, for sure, but she never slept as well as when she could smell its salt-tinged breath through her open window, and just barely hear the playful crashing of the waves. 

She looked out over the black ocean beside her, and couldn't imagine it bringing comfort to anyone. Somewhere, beyond it, was Jack. The thought alone was nearly enough to make her fling herself onto the nearest boat and propel herself there, but the awareness that there was a very real possibility Jack would not be alright when she found him froze her in place.

“Oi! Wotchit, Missus!” A holler behind her broke the spell, and Phryne instinctively pressed herself up against a wooden crate beside her, narrowly avoiding being run down by a wharfie with a wheelbarrow full of coils of thick rope.

“Ain't no place for sightseeing, lady!”

Normally, Phryne would have relished a come-back, but she found she wasn't her usual self. Instead she turned and headed for the heavy wooden doors of the station, and hoped there was some bit of evidence to be found in this grim town. 

Evan had given her the name of the station master, but said he hadn't been able to reach the man to ask him to release the passenger logs. Phryne checked her watch. The man himself might have gone home for the day, but whoever was on duty might be even easier to persuade. 

Once inside, Phryne withdrew a handkerchief from her coat pocket and dabbed at her lips; it wouldn't do to introduce herself with salt-sprayed flecks of red all over her mouth. Satisfied, she stowed the handkerchief and stood up straight as she could, scanning the terminal and seeing an open wicket at the ticket booths. 

“'Scuse, me,” she said in her best Collingwood drawl, “I'm lookin' for the Station Master?”

The redheaded young woman behind the counter hardly moved, but tilted her head towards the far left of the station, where several doors lead off the main atrium. 

“Cheers!” sang Phryne, and headed towards the largest of the doors. Sure enough, a small sign in gilt lettering on the door read, “STATION MASTER”; she suppressed a small pang of nostalgia thinking of another gold-lettered door. 

She knocked. 

“Yeah?” A thick voice attached to an equally thick man opened the door a crack, and gave Phryne a scowl that conveyed everything he felt she needed to know. 

“Good evening, Sir,” Phryne said, “I'm right sorry I'm so late in the day, but I was caught up getting out of London. I'm 'ere to speak with the Harbour Master, a Mister Potts?” She batted her eyelashes innocently, loosening the scarf at her throat for effect. 

The big man looked her up and down and frowned. “E's gone 'ome for the evenin, 'asn't 'e. Past 6.”

“Oh, I was afraid 'o that! Well, I'm sure 'e left word about me, though, eh? Name's Fern, Fern Driscoll. From Australia? He was helping me track someone down. Awfully helpful, 'e was, and said I ought to come 'round and look at some lists of names?” She cocked her head and shrugged a little.

The man shifted his weight and looked past Phryne out into station, as if looking for an explanation.

“I dunno watch'yer talking about. 'E ain't 'ere. I'm the deputy, and I dunno anything about no list.” He made to close the door, but Phryne put one hand out, as if to catch it, but bringing it to rest instead on his broad chest. 

“Please, sir, if I could just have a minute. I can't go home without knowing I'm safe.”

*****

It turned out Deputy Station Master Duffy MacLeish was had grown up the only boy in a family of 6 sisters, and had strong feelings about men who roughed up their women. When “Fern” explained, over a chipped cup of tea the colour of engine oil, that she had travelled to England from Australia to live with her Gran and get away from her abusive fella, MacLeish nearly went purple trying to maintain his decorum in front of what was obviously a fine lady, if not a posh one. 

“I'm afraid he's come after me, ya see; my uncle works the docks and says someone with his name landed here couple months ago. But the waiting is just killing me, and I just want to see if he's come to London. If he has, my uncle will take care of him, I'm sure of that, but he needs to know to look out for him, see? 'E works, and can't be at 'ome all the time.” She gave MacLeish a vulnerable smile, and the big man nearly spilt his tea. 

“'E's a great big man, like you, my uncle, and I just know he'd give him what 'e deserves... Same as you would, I bet.” 

MacLeish seemed to get even larger as he blushed slightly at Phryne's words.

“Bloody right I would – oh, pardon my language, Miss. But I don' hold with blokes who treat their women no better'n a stray dog. No sir.” He nodded a few times, his brow furrowed, and then looked up at Phryne. 

“So you're thinkin' yer man bought 'imself a ticket to the city, after 'e landed.” Not the sharpest knife, perhaps, thought Phryne, but awfully sweet. 

“Could be. If I could just 'ave a look at the passenger lists to London for the day or so after he docked, I'd be so grateful. 'Is name's Jack, Jack Robinson, but I'm not sure 'e didn't use another name for 'is ticket. 'E's slippery like that.”

As Duffy MacLeish stood and walked to a shelf of tall, leather-bound ledgers on a wall of bookcases, Phryne felt a pang of guilt at dragging Jack's name through the mud.

_Needs must, though, darling. _The term of endearment slipped into her thoughts easily. She cleared her throat.__

__“Righ'. 'Ere are the logs for December 18th and 19th,” said MacLeish, beckoning Phryne to pull her chair closer to the desk. “London-bound passengers are on these three pages, and names are all down the side.”_ _

__“Thank you, Mr. MacLeish,” Phryne said, removing her hat and gloves, and pulling her notebook out of her bag. “I won't take much of your time. Say, I don't suppose I could trouble you for a glass of water?” She wanted a little privacy, in case she had to write down more names than she could explain, but the truth was, the bitter tea had left her mouth uncomfortably dry._ _

__“It'd be my pleasure, Miss Driscoll. Anything else you need you let me know. I won't be two ticks with that water.” Duffy MacLeish was obviously a good man, and Phryne's smile was genuine._ _

__Once alone, Phryne wasted no time, scanning the pages for anything that stuck out. If the man hadn't used Jack's name, and they knew already that he hadn't, it might be impossible to pick him out, if he was even among the list. But it was the only avenue she had, and she found her fingers crossing as they trailed down the list of names._ _

__She finished the list for December 18th without anything ringing a bell. She saw Angelina Vascari's name, but nothing that pointed to the imposter._ _

__“Any luck, Miss?” MacLeish appeared behind her more quietly than a man of his bulk should be able to, and Phryne jumped a little. He took it as a sign of her anxiety about the task at hand, and Phryne found him rising again in her estimation._ _

__“'Ave you thought about going to the coppers, Miss? I mean, I know you got your uncle, but this Robinson sounds like a nasty piece of work, 'specially if 'e followed you 'ere all the way from Australia.”_ _

__“Tried that, I'm afraid,” said Phryne, pausing in her work to take a sip of water. “They told me they need proof 'e means to do me 'arm before they can do anything.”_ _

__MacLeish’s eyes grew dark, and he set his mouth in a grim line. “I almost 'ope 'e does turn up, and that that uncle of yours gives him everything 'e's got. Man like that don't deserve to live.”_ _

__“Shame they're not all like you, Mr. MacLeish.”_ _

__The man blushed again, and smiled shyly. “I'll let you get on. I'm righ' outside if you need anything.”_ _

__Unfortunately, Phryne was beginning to fear her efforts were in vain, when nearing the bottom of the last page, one name jumped clear off the page. Not Jack Robinson, but close._ _

_John Robertson._

__She bit her lip. It was a common enough name. More than likely, it belonged to a man who'd gone by that name his whole life, not a mysterious imposter and possible fugitive. But it was the closest thing she had to a clue, and that was better than nothing. She quickly copied the details of the ledger into her notebook._ _

_John Robertson, boarded Southampton, December 19th, on the 8:45 am train to Waterloo Station, London._

__No connecting ticket was sold, so presumably Mr. Robertson planned to remain in London, at least for a time._ _

__“Any luck?” MacLeish’s deep voice from behind her reminded Phryne about her cover. She put a thin smile on her face, and turned in her chair to face him._ _

__“I think so. Good chance, anyhow, and now I know what name 'e's using. I'll be alright.”_ _

__She stood and replaced her cloche and gloves, and collected her pen and notebook. At the door, she paused and turned to Duffy MacLeish._ _

__“Can't thank you enough, Mr. MacLeish. You did a real good thing tonight. I wish all fellas were as kind as you.”_ _

__MacLeish stared at the gloved hand on his arm, then looked up, the offensive bluster from their initial meeting softened to a kind of earnest strength._ _

__“Good luck, Miss Driscoll. It was surely my pleasure to help.”_ _

__With a last smile, Phryne turned and headed for the street, hoping there was a cab nearby._ _

__As it happened, she was lucky. While she'd been inside, the storm had arrived in full, and several black-roofed taxis stood in a row outside the station, waiting for fares hoping to escape the rain and sleet. Phryne made for the first in the line, and the driver hopped out, shielding her as best he could from the onslaught with a flimsy umbrella._ _

__“Where to, Miss?” he shouted over the noise._ _

__“Dolphin Hotel, please!” Phryne tumbled inelegantly into the back of the car, and heaved out a sigh as she attempted to straighten her clothes. One thing was for sure: the sooner she put miles between herself and England, the better._ _

__****_ _

__Phryne elected to tell the front desk she'd be leaving the following morning over the telephone from her room, rather than in person. She told herself it was because of the state of her attire, but the truth was, she didn't feel like talking to anyone, much less a smarmy hotelier._ _

__She began drawing a hot bath the minute she stepped into her suite, peeling off her clothes and hanging them near the fireplace to dry. She wrapped herself in a silk gown, wishing she'd brought the plainer, warmer one instead. She rang the front desk, asking that her car be ready by 10:00 in the morning, and ordering up a light supper and a bottle of wine._ _

__She rolled her neck as she hung up the receiver, feeling every hour of missed sleep in the last four days. Adding some scented salts to the water, she slipped into the bath, intending to make a plan for the next day._ _

__But all she could think of was Jack. Was it even possible that he was safe?_ _

_Or even just alive..._

__The enormity of the situation threatened to crush the breath out of her. Two more days. Two days to do everything she could to track down the man who appeared responsible; two days until she was on her way to the last place Jack had been. She just had to keep her head._ _

__Her limbs felt heavy after the bath, and she was glad she'd decided to eat in her room. She wasn't hungry, but the food when it arrived was good, and she forced herself to eat. The wine was better, and she was grateful for its mild anaesthetic. As she lay amongst the thick covers of the bed, still trying to shed a chill, she considered the meagre evidence she had collected._ _

__Jack had been on that ship, and had gone ashore in Port Said. Whether he's gone ashore innocently as a tourist, or had gone to meet the mystery man, perhaps having been lured, she didn't know. Somehow, the man who returned to his room that evening, using his name and presumably his passport, was an imposter. This man had disembarked with the rest of the passengers, (a few hundred yards from where Phryne was sitting now, she couldn't help thinking). It was possible he'd boarded a train the following day to London, using an unimaginative variation of his stolen identity. He wouldn't be the first criminal she'd encountered without much creativity, and she found herself hoping it was the case._ _

__As much as part of her was intrigued by the puzzle of this man, the search for him felt hollow. She didn't care about him, didn't care why he'd done what he'd done; didn't even care if she found him, truth be told. She only cared about Jack. But if finding this phantom could help lead her to Jack, she'd tear London apart in 48 hours flat._ _

__Her head was starting to feel heavy, either from the wine or the accumulated fatigue. As she blinked to keep her eyes open, she stared at the few notes she'd made. The biggest question right now wasn't why, it was what._ _

_What had this man done to Jack Robinson?_

__Every time Phryne tried to be disciplined and methodical about approaching the possibilities, she found herself overwhelmed. Her breath would come too fast, her heart would threaten to pound out of her chest, or tears would materialize from nowhere. She gulped down the last of her glass of wine, and sat up on the bed, pulling the edges of her robe around her, and took a deep breath._ _

__“Dammit!” she blurted out, then steadied herself with another deep breath. “Alright. If you can't get through this as you, then.... What would Jack do?”_ _

__All of a sudden she fought back an image of him, his body still and crumpled and alone, and she nearly heaved at the thought._ _

_That is not going to do him any good, Phryne Fisher. Think, come on! What would Jack do? Right now, with only what you have to go on._

__The storm raged outside, the wind tossing sleet like pebbles against the panes of the long windows. Pulling a blanket around her shoulders, Phryne went to look, shivering slightly at the grey-scale scene outside. The streetlamps illuminated the sleet into thousands of tiny white shards. Across the street, a horizontal wind pulled the branches of the trees into switches at right angles to the ground. Nothing was still, yet everything was frozen. She missed Australia desperately._ _

__She had never liked England. She'd enjoyed London for a time, loved the parties and the excitement, and the possibilities. But never, from the first night she'd spent in a huge, draughty house in Somerset, to this night, alone at the bottom of the country, had it felt like home. Now, she was bored of the parties, and London hadn't changed at all in the years she'd been gone. She'd have thought that would be a good thing; she'd been surprised to find it wasn't. London may exactly the same, but she was not._ _

__She'd known perfectly well that the only thing that had made it bearable these last two months was that it was temporary; it wasn't ever going to be home. She hadn’t known how much she’d been counting on one person to arrive and make her feel herself again, even if they were on the other side of the world._ _

She had thought he would come, but hadn't realized how much it mattered. Part of her wanted to examine what that meant – to her, to them, to her lovingly crafted life in Melbourne, but truth was, any worry about it felt false. If Jack had come, willingly and after everything, she couldn't bring herself to question it. The fact was, warranted or not, she trusted _them together_ as much as she trusted herself. The realization was one she would have sworn she’d never have, and yet she felt only peace about it. 

__And if he has in fact changed his mind, she thought, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, then she would have to find a way to bear it. She'd done it before (though the twist in her gut threatening to undo her made her wonder if she could do it again)._ _

__And if it was too late.... No. She still couldn't confront the worst, even if denying it felt like trying to ignore a spider crawling up her neck._ _

Phryne could just make out the harbour from her top floor window. One of the squat cargo ships was pulling slowly out of port, riding the slack tide. Something she'd said to Evan came back to her: _anyone who would risk such a deceit would have to be desperate either to leave Egypt, or to get to England; possibly both._ With the number of ships bound to Europe passing through the port on any given week, it would not have been difficult to secure passage. 

__Unless, she thought, rushing back to the bed and grabbing her notebook, unless the person had no passport. According to Angelina Vascari, he was English, so presumably he'd had a passport once. Did he lose it? Unlikely – in a busy port city like Said, it wouldn’t be difficult to replace a lost or stolen passport._ _

__Phryne chewed the end of her pencil._ _

__Perhaps not lost then, but revoked? That would fit: someone from England without a valid passport would be effectively stranded, and would need to go through proper authorities to replace it, but if for some reason, his passport was nullified, he'd need to find a way to leave Egypt undetected._ _

__A shiver having nothing to do with the storm brought out gooseflesh on her arms. Their ghost might be a wanted man. What that meant for Jack, she couldn't bring herself to think._ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an attempt to stave off rioters with pitchforks and torches, here's a second chapter today. ;) And really and truly, thank you. <3

Phryne was on the road uncharacteristically early the next morning. The storm had blown itself out, and a weak sun was already melting what ice remained. She didn't beat any speed records (she was bold but not stupid, and one could never predict lingering patches of black ice) but skipping breakfast and getting an early start meant she was home well before noon. 

“Hallo, Miss!” greeted Deirdre with a big smile, taking Phryne's overnight bag from her in the foyer. “Was it a good trip?”

“I hope so, Deirdre, but truly, besides an exit from the country, I can't say Southampton has a lot to recommend it.”

The girl giggled. “My Grandad once said it was the arse end of the country, and he were born there!”

Phryne stared at the maid, her mouth open in mock horror. 

“Oh! I can't believe I said that! I'm so sorry – forgive me miss! I don't know where me head was at.”

Phryne patted her on the arm, her eyes laughing. 

“Don't think anything of it, Deirdre dear. I happen to agree with your Grandad, and think he put it nothing short of eloquently.”

Deirdre looked still looked slightly scandalized, but tried to recover by fussing with Phryne's coat. “I believe Mr. Damson wasn't sure if you'd be returning today or tomorrow, but I'm sure he can put together some lunch. Would you like it in your room, or downstairs?”

“Lunch would be marvellous; I'm absolutely starving. At my age I should know better than to skip breakfast. I'll be down, I just need to freshen up and change my clothes.”

The drive had focused Phryne's attention for the time being on finding Mr. John Robertson. If her hunch was correct, and his British passport had indeed been revoked, there would be some record of it. It was a long shot, admittedly – even if it was true, his passport might have been rescinded anywhere in the world. He could have made his way to Port Said the same way he made his way to England, in which case it could take months if not longer to track down every UK citizen whose documents had been confiscated. She had to hope it had happened in Egypt, and that Evan could once again use his connections to help. 

“You're becoming a fixture, P; I ought to get you your own nameplate for that side of the desk.” Evan's smile was generous through his teasing, and he shut his door behind him as he ushered her in. “You said something about the consulate in Egypt?”

“Port Said, specifically. It's far from a sure thing, Evan, but I want to know if any British citizens in the area have recently had their passports revoked or nullified, and if so, why.”

Evan poured them each a drink and sat down behind the desk. The afternoon sun was slanting through the louvred blinds behind him, and he noticed Phryne shift a little to see him better. He stood and angled them up, shading most of the room.

“Better?” 

“Much,” she smiled. “Though I'm loathe to deny any sun that manages to make it through the clouds in this country.”

“I might just have to make a point to travelling to this Australian wonderland you've fallen in love with,” Evan said. “See what all the fuss is about.” 

“I was born there, you know; it's hardly a recent infatuation.”

“No, but it seems to have seduced you in a way nowhere else did. I'm happy for you, Phryne.” 

Evan took a sip of his whiskey, then pulled his notepad closer. “So. You think maybe this fellow had his own passport taken, -”

“ _Officially_ taken, Evan. If it had been merely stolen or lost, he'd have been able to get a replacement. His actions say he was left with little alternative, so I'm betting revoked.”

“Hm. Well it would fit for someone who isn't looking terribly upstanding already,” Evan ran his fingers over an imaginary moustache, frowning thoughtfully.

“I suppose it's worth a try, isn't it. But how will we know any of the names are him? I mean, there could be dozens of revoked passports in Egypt alone. He obviously isn't using his real name. And perhaps it happened somewhere else...”

“Evan,” Phryne said firmly, sitting forward and setting her glass on the desk, “This is the best lead we have, and the only avenue I can think of to find this man. If this is the same man who boarded a train in Southampton under the name John Robertson, he risked coming to the seat of the very country that revoked his documents. If so, he must have had a reason, and a strong one, but I have no way of tracking him down on this end. He disembarked at Waterloo and disappeared into a city of millions. I need to find out who he really is. Please, let's try the consulate in Port Said, and see where it leads.”

Evan examined his friend closely. 

“You really are quite good at this, aren't you, Phry?”

She gave him a feline smile. “I'm very good.” She paused, fiddling with the crystal tumbler in front of her. “It might not be enough though. And the one other person I would trust to figure this out....” She looked up at Evan and shrugged. “Isn't here.”

“Well, I can't say I fancy myself much of a detective, but my limited services are all yours. So. Let's get Emilia onto setting up a wire to the British consulate in Port Said, and we'll take it from there.”

Together they drafted a telegram as carefully as they could. Phryne offered to pay for the transmission; it was hardly the terse few words of a standard wire. Evan declined, saying if Phryne's hunch bore out, he could more than justify the cost to his superiors. He promised he'd have Emilia send it immediately, and would let her know as soon as he heard back. 

Phryne went home, and steeled herself for a difficult phone call. She had spent the last two months in the dusty offices of solicitors, bank managers, and estate agents wrestling her parents finances into sustainable order. That it had involved more than a little wrestling with her father's ego had meant she already felt bruised and tender when it came to dealing with them. Finally though, her parents' finances were sound, and her father's freedom to wreak havoc had been effectively curtailed. Best he could do now was blow his entire weekly allowance on whiskey or an ill-placed flutter, and the only damage would be to his pride. All the accounts and the main estate income were in Phryne's name, and her mother was allowed certain co-signing privileges. They would be relatively safe from the unrest on the markets threatening out of America, and would be able to maintain at least a reasonable if not extravagant lifestyle. 

Phryne wouldn't be coming back to London. When she found Jack, (she tamped down a flush of panic as her terrible vision of him from the night before flashed in her mind) she would decide from there. Melbourne held her heart, but if she couldn't face it, there was a whole world to explore, and she'd had enough of London to last a lifetime. 

She sat in an armchair in the parlour, tea and a plate of untouched sandwiches beside her. She'd allowed herself little imaginings, over the last months, of being here with Jack. He'd love it, she knew; he'd love the tangible history, the ties to his favourite literature, the architecture. They'd visit galleries and museums and he'd talk low and eloquent about the significance of this painter or the discovery of that artifact and she'd stare at his mouth and the way it caressed the words he so carefully chose, and in empty corridors and dim corners she'd steal a kiss, lingering at his lips because she finally could. 

They'd sleep late, Phryne convincing him to try decadence, then not quite being surprised when he embraced it with appetite. She would luxuriate in him, in the shape and feel of him, and would, (the thought made her oddly but not unpleasantly off balance) let him whisper to her, let him hold her long and close with nothing between them. 

She sat, frozen in remembering things that had never happened. She hadn't crafted the images; they had just arrived, sometimes at odd times, like when she was riding in her father's car, or dressing for bed, or dancing in someone else's arms. It had been unsettling, at first, and she'd pushed the feeling of wanting away, not desiring to dwell on any lack, any need. But the images were gently insistent, and before long, she had found they were her refuge.

Now she sat in an almost empty house belonging to someone else, her own home a world away, and the one person who could anchor her seemed to have turned to smoke. 

Phryne rubbed her arms briskly to bring herself back to the task at hand. Her parents would be upset at her leaving; she knew they had each harboured hopes of convincing her to stay indefinitely. 

“Phryne,” her mother had said in the week leading up to Christmas, “Australia is so very far, and with so few opportunities compared to London! If you must travel, go to the Continent for a time, and come back here when the weather is better! But to go all the way back to Australia... Whatever can it have over England? Your family is here!”

_No_ , Phryne had thought, _it isn't_.

Phryne had stopped responding (“My daughter, my work, my home, my friends...”) weeks ago. Margaret Fisher had an unparallelled ability to hear and see only what she wanted. It was a trait Phryne had years ago realized was responsible for allowing mother to endure both the death of her daughter and the brutal cowardice of her husband. Phryne loved her, but she had long since stopped hoping for empathy.

Her father would be angry, and Phryne's guilt at telling them over the phone was tempered with the knowledge that this would make for much less of a scene than there would have been had they all been in the same house. 

In the end, she didn't speak to her father at all. Her mother tried repeatedly to get her to change her mind, never giving any indication that she heard a word of what Phryne was saying about Jack, the case, his whereabouts. Phryne told her anyway, at least twice, and then assured her mother she would write along her journey, and let them know where she ended up. The last thing she heard before she hung up was her father shouting in the background that she was throwing away her chances.

In spite of herself, her hand shook as she replaced the receiver.

“Beg your pardon, Miss,” said Damson, having materialized behind her in the hall, “Will you be dining in this evening, or out?”

Phryne composed herself before turning around, and smiled. 

“Out this evening, Damson, though I must say I find I'd much prefer to stay in. But if I'm to leave London tomorrow, there are one or two people I'd never be forgiven for having left without a last visit.”

The man nodded graciously before turning to leave. He paused at the doorway to the dining room, and turned back to Phryne.

“Forgive me for saying so, Miss, but I believe your parents should be very proud of you.”

Phryne met his eyes, and noticed not for the first time this trip how much older he was looking than the man she remembered from her childhood. He was still as tall and graceful in his work as ever, but his hair was almost completely white, and the lines on his face were etched deeply. 

“Thank you, Damson. I don't imagine they are, very, but there you are.” 

“They ought to be Miss. I am.”

With a last small smile, he retreated to the kitchen before Phryne could respond.

*****

A light snow was falling in the street outside as Phryne put the finishing touches on her outfit for the evening. Muriel Leland was hosting a dinner party for many of Phryne's old friends, and now that they knew she was leaving again, she'd become the unofficial guest of honour. She wore a long ivory gown (“winter white” her mother's couturier had said, as if it mattered to Phryne.)

She clasped a platinum and diamond bracelet to her wrist, then leaned into the mirror to apply her lipstick. She hadn't heard from Evan, and was getting worried. If they didn't learn anything from the consulate, they were right back at square one, their suspect having vanished into the wind, and their _missing person_ (she couldn't bring herself to use the word 'victim') a world away and without a trace. 

The last thing she felt like doing was making merry with a house full of bright young things, but she knew feelings would be hurt if she didn't. And besides, other than pack, which Deirdre had well underway already, there was little she could do until she heard back. 

She opened the little silver box that held the few pieces of jewelry she'd brought with her, looking for her diamond chandelier earrings. Instead, her fingers closed around a boy's tin badge that a very grown up Jack Robinson had given her, what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

She couldn't help but smile. Every time she held it, letting her fingers trace the rough star in the centre, she was carried back to that moment in her hallway, when the man she most cared for chose her, even over Buffalo Bill. 

They had been on their way to something. Not in the circling, glancing way they had been before, but steadily, assuredly. _If_ had changed to _when_ , and she had seen something different in Jack's eyes when he held her gaze over a late night drink, or her waist on an empty dance floor.

He had been sure.

She had not.

She was startled by the sound of the telephone from downstairs. Grabbing her notebook from the bedside table, she raced to the bottom of the stairs.

Damson beat her to it, and she met his eyes as she rounded the landing. 

“Yes, Mr. Darling, she's right here. I shall pass you to her.”

“Evan?” Phryne was slightly out of breath as she waited for his update, and only partly from rushing to the phone. 

“Phryne, I'd rather not say this over the phone, but suffice it to say that your instincts are very, very good. Can you meet me for dinner tonight?”

Phryne made an unladylike noise into the phone. Well, nothing for it; her friends would just have to understand. Perhaps she could drop by later for drinks, but this was far more important. 

“Yes! Just say where and when.”

“Well, what do you say to Boulestin? After all, nothing says we can't do serious things in luxurious surroundings, and their Chateaubriand is exquisite.”

“Lovely. I still haven't been, and by all accounts it's divine. Though I can't say my appetite has been terribly vigorous this week.”

“Unsurprising, darling. Look, what time can I collect you? I'm ready to leave the office anytime.”

“Don't come all the way here, Evan. I'll meet you at the restaurant. Covent Garden, isn't it? I'll leave directly... I can be there by half eight.”

“Well if you're sure... I'll call ahead and have them save us a table away from the crowds. See you soon, P.”

Though genuinely sorry to cancel so late on her friends, Phryne couldn’t deny she was relieved. It was impossible to pretend she could focus on anything other than Jack and the phantom imposter. She looked down, and realized Jack's badge – her badge – was still in her hand. Picking it up in the fingers of her other hand, she saw that the circle and star were imprinted on her palm. A small smile played at her lips.

“What might Mrs. Bollwhatsit say to that, I wonder.”

“Pardon me, Miss?” Deirdre had appeared, once again a head suspended over the railing from above. “Did you say something?”

“Erm, no. No, just talking to myself. Deirdre, it appears my plans have changed for the evening... Would you please let Mr. Sandringham know that I will be dining at Boulestin this evening, rather than at the Lelands' in Earl's Court? I'll need my white fur, please. I just have one quick call to make, and then I'll collect my handbag.”

“Very good, Miss. He's already got the car ready for you. And I've heard Boulestin is just the very best restaurant in London, Miss, maybe even the whole world! They say the food's as good as any in Paris.”

Phryne smiled at the girl as she placed a quick and apologetic call to Muriel Leland, grateful that the woman was well-bred enough not to question Phryne's flimsy excuse for cancelling. Muriel promised to relay Phryne's regrets to her guests, and Phryne promised to make up for it next time she was in town. They both knew that was unlikely to be soon, if ever, but each felt better for having said it. 

Once back in her boudoir, Phryne set a sparkling jewelled clip in her hair, and remembered to put on her earrings. She selected a silver beaded handbag and slid the little tin badge inside, next to her notebook and lipstick. As she did up the clasp, she tried not to examine the feeling of not wanting to leave it behind. 

“Car's out front, Miss, and I've got your fur downstairs, along with the white gloves. You look just beautiful, Miss.” Deirdre had appeared behind her in the hall. 

“Thank you, Deirdre. I'm not sure what time I'll be in, so don't worry about waiting up.” Phryne quickly stepped into her heels, and headed downstairs.

Mr. Sandringham had been her mother's driver since they'd arrived in England, and was as dependable as he was taciturn. Phryne would have sworn she'd only ever heard him say about four words at a time, usually along the lines of “Where to, Madame?” and “Very good, Madame”, but had a soft spot for the man, largely because he took good care of her mother. 

As she settled herself in the back seat of the long, low automobile, she apologized for the change of plans. 

“No need to wait, though. I'll make my own way home from the restaurant.”

Sandringham was silent, but she saw the slight nod of his head in the mirror and smiled. 

“Can we drive through the park, please? I know it's a little longer that way, but it's such a lovely night, and I’d like to see it one more time before I leave.”

“Yes, Miss.”

A light dusting of snow made the grey bones of the city bright and clean, and glow of the lamps softened their edges. Phryne rested her head against the plush seat and stared out, unable to shake the feeling of a phantom limb. 

She'd never been here with Jack, never been anywhere other than Melbourne, and areas nearby. She'd never seen his home (though she'd imagined it many times); never met his family (whom she had not imagined at all). When she'd made the impulsive decision, sitting outside the observatory beside her father, to fly her father all the way to England, the only thing in her mind had been saving her parents, by saving their marriage. It wasn't much, she knew, but it was the only stability she had ever had. Her mother had sacrificed everything for it, even the childhood of her daughters, and Phryne knew she would protect it with every drop of blood in her body. It wasn't reasonable, or fair, but it was the truth. To let their marriage falter would mean that the wreck that had been her childhood, the hunger, the fear, the loneliness, were all for nought. And that was too much to bear. 

As she'd risen from that bench beside her father, her head immediately full of packing lists and fuel stops and maintenance requirements, she'd felt a shadow of warning, a shiver that urged her to look more closely at what it meant to go, at the consequences of leaving behind something vital and changeable.

Ever headstrong, she'd ignored it.

Sandringham cleared his throat and roused Phryne from her thoughts. 

They passed the Wellington Arch, the Palace, and drove onto the Mall, the barren branches of the long rows of plane trees looking almost sinister against the winter sky. Phryne wondered idly when the next time would be that she would see London again. It was a cold city.

The car pulled up eventually in front of a smart facade on tiny Southampton Street in Covent Garden. 

_I can't seem to get away from that name_ , Phryne thought ruefully, as she let a valet help her from the car. 

Curved banks of tall, mullioned windows flanked double doors, a crimson canopy above them proclaiming the name of the restaurant. Phryne heard the music from inside even before she got out of the car, and saw at least four couples draped in furs and feathers make their way into the golden glow. It as exactly the sort of place she would normally adore, and tonight all she could think of was what Evan had discovered. 

“Mademoiselle Fisher,” swooned the Maitre D', nodding to an acolyte to take her stole and gloves. “Such an honour to have you. Bienvenue à Boulestin. Monsieur Darling is awaiting you.”

Phryne followed the round little man to the back of one of the plush dining rooms. It was a lush space – deep red carpets, tall windows hung with golden brocade drapes pulled back in graceful swags, candlelight casting a seductive glow over everything. It was nearly full, and Phryne was grateful for Evan's connections in securing a secluded table. 

He stood to greet her, and the Maitre D' retreated discretely.

They ordered, and after a few minutes small talk to make sure no one was listening from any of the nearby tables, Evan dropped his voice and leaned in towards Phryne. 

“Well I am officially and wildly impressed with your skills, Miss Fisher, and your instincts” he said, reaching into his breast pocket and withdrawing a folded piece of paper. “The Consul General in Port Said was very cooperative – apparently our friend's mysterious disappearance has been quite the thorn in his side these last few months.”

“So you have a name?” Phryne felt butterflies in her stomach.

“I do, and better than. He is one Gerald Wells, son of Archibald Wells, of Wells Developments.”

Phryne frowned, unable to place the name.

“Archibald Wells has a tenuous link to the aristocracy, but made a fortune in building and construction after the war. He's worth millions, and Gerald is apparently his only son and heir. And not only is the Consulate aware of him, he'd been effectively working there, in charge of the construction of the expansion of the British Hospital in Port Said for the last four months, on behalf of his father's company.” 

A tuxedoed waiter appeared with a bottle of Champagne on ice and poured two glasses, completely unfazed that all conversation at the table had stopped at his arrival.

“Thank you,” said Phryne, picking up her coupe.

“To Jack Robinson,” said Evan quietly, reaching his glass towards hers.

Phryne suddenly couldn't speak over the lump in her throat, but touched the lip of her glass to his, and drank deeply.

“And his documents...”

“Officially confiscated,” Evan's voice dropped to a bare whisper, “Upon suspicion of nothing short of _murder_.”

Evan saw the colour drain from Phryne's face, and quickly reached a hand out to cover hers on the table. 

“Not Jack's, Phryne! There's been no reports of mysterious Australians or Brits turning up dead in the Port, I checked. But apparently our man Wells has quite the temper, and was abhorrently cruel to the staff that work in the hospital. A young local woman who was employed as an orderly was found dead in his office there in the last week of November. He disappeared the night she was found. The consulate revoked his documents, and tried to monitor all exits from the city, but they had no idea where he had gone until we reached out!”

In spite of the macabre subject matter, Evan's eyes sparkled as he spoke, and Phryne grimly recognized the thrill of the chase. All she felt was cold.

She shook her head slightly, and sipped her drink in an effort to marshal her thoughts. 

“So he did need an escape, and quickly. I imagine a 6 foot tall Englishman might eventually stand out, even in a busy port town. So was Jack just a handy mark?”

Evan was about to respond, when two waiters appeared with their first courses, an amber coloured pheasant consommé. Evan waved them away before they could pour more Champagne, and he reached out to do it himself. 

“Do you mean you think Jack was targeted?”

“It's a possibility. He was, as it turns out, a very good mark: travelling alone, quiet, reserved, not even anyone to miss him at the dock when they landed in Southampton. Even his physique was a good enough match for Wells that the man was able to wear his clothes...” Phryne seemed to falter a bit, and Evan wondered again just what it was between her and this mysterious Australian. 

“He is a police officer, though, which at least to me seems it might make it harder. I mean, he must have had to take him by surprise or overpower him.” Evan winced. “Blast. I'm sorry, P. This must be excruciating.”

Phryne set her soup spoon down and rested her hands in her lap. “It is, but it's the only way we're going to find out what's happened. And you're not wrong. Jack is not a pushover, and would have made it difficult if he'd had half the chance.” She thought of Wells' bandaged hand, and felt a surge of pride.

“Perhaps Wells did take him by surprise.”

“I think he'd have had to, unless he had something over Jack, which I can't imagine. Jack hasn't ever had dealings in Egypt as far as I know, though I suppose it's possible.”

“What did he do during the war?” Evan tilted his bowl away from him as he finished the last of the consommé. 

“He was stationed in France, for most of it, I believe, but he doesn't talk about it. I've always suspected there was some intelligence work in his past, but he'd never confirm it.”

“Hm. Still, bit of a long shot, isn't it. I mean how could this chap know Robinson would be on that ship, dock at that port, much less that he'd come ashore, when he didn't know himself until a few weeks before.”

Phryne nodded thoughtfully. “You're right. It's more likely Jack was just unlucky that day, and that a desperate man saw a chance he couldn't pass up. But there's something that's bothering me. Why would a wealthy man, a wealthy wanted man, risk so much just to sail right back into the bosom of the country that's after him? If the murder took place in the consulate, it's a British crime, punishable in Britain. Why come right back to London? It’s not as if he's a complete unknown – he's a recognizable person, and unlikely to be able to stay underground for long.”

Phryne sat back as the dishes were cleared and the second course, a delicate baked sole, was set before them. She could see Evan was getting impatient with the fussing and interruptions, and had to suppress a smile.

When the waiters were gone, Evan leaned forward, tackling his fish as he spoke. “It does sound strange, but then again, he's already proven he's not averse to taking some awfully big risks. It must have been worth it for him.”

Phryne gasped. “Yes! Of course. Evan you're brilliant! The consulate would have frozen his assets in Egypt, but his father is abundantly wealthy. Wells would have had to come home first to get money, before disappearing for good!”

Her face fell. “But that was nearly three weeks ago. There's no way he'll still be in England. He's not an utter fool; he'd have tried to get in and out as quickly as possible, and then move on to a jurisdiction where British Law can't touch him.”

She rubbed at her temple. “We may never find him.”

“Perhaps,” said Evan, “but isn't it still worth a visit to his father? He might have some knowledge of what transpired in Said; something that might help when we arrive.” 

Phryne pushed a forkful of fish around on her plate. “I suppose. I just can't bear not being there.”

Evan reached his hand out across the table, and covered hers. 

“We're going to find him, P. We're going to talk to Old Mr. Wells tomorrow, and even if that turns up nothing, we're going to find Jack.”

Phryne looked up and smiled, a sad, shallow smile that didn't reach her eyes. She nodded. 

The rest of the meal was spent trying to talk about other things: Phryne's life and cases in Australia, Evan's travels to the Continent and abroad. He was genuinely amazed when he learned of Jane, and couldn't keep the slight bewilderment out of his voice.

“Are you mocking me, Evan Darling?” Phryne asked, showing the first hint of her old self all evening.

“No,” he laughed, pouring them both more wine. “Not in the least! I'm just – just a little in awe of you, P. You're completely yourself, but....” He paused, meeting her eyes and shaking his head a little. “More. Not that the Phryne Fisher I knew needed to be more of anything, but somehow, it seems you are. More yourself, if that's possible.”

She quirked her head, then decided to let it go. “Thank you, I think.” She held up her glass, and mock-toasted him before drinking deeply.

The meal was indeed as good as promised, and Phryne felt pleasantly fuzzy from the wine as they left the restaurant. The little cul de sac street was almost empty now, but a large black car crawled towards them. 

“I'll take you home.” Evan held the door for her, his hand lingering on hers slightly longer than necessary. When he got in the other side, she turned to him, placing her hand on his arm.

“You are extraordinary, you know. Helping with all of this, putting yourself and your job on the line.”

“Heavens, is that what I'm doing? That doesn't sound remotely like me. I'm a terrible cad, and very happy to be callous and selfish.” She saw a small quirk at the side of his mouth.

“Mmmm. It appears I'm not the only one who's changed. It means the world, Evan. To me.”

His hand came to cover hers on his arm, and he stared ahead out the front window, his thumb tracing circles on her skin.

“And is there anything else, perhaps, that I could do for you?”

Phryne closed her eyes for a moment, then looked down at their joined hands.

Before she could answer, Evan spoke again. 

“You don't owe me anything, P. And I'll help either way. I just... If you wanted.”

Phryne turned her hand over and squeezed his before withdrawing it. She cleared her throat softly before speaking.

“I don't think it would be fair, Evan.”

“Phryne, nothing's changed, between us. We still know exactly who we are and what it would be. There's no worry there.”

The car swung onto The Strand, and shadows flickered across their laps as they passed under the lamp posts.

Phryne shook her head. “Darling, you're lovely. You're perfect. But I'm afraid something has changed. I don't know what exactly, or if it'll stay that way, but it's enough.”

Evan looked at her a moment, her profile clear against the passing lights, and nodded. When she reached over to take his hand, he squeezed back.


	7. Chapter 7

One week after he’d first sat up, Jack stood on weakened legs, staring out the open window. The room was on the second floor, on a bustling street. Below him people went about their days, shopped, cooked, worked, embraced. Dogs and donkeys traded noises and scrawny copper-coloured chickens skittered out of the way of wagons and passing cars, but he felt suspended in a surreal world. It felt like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. 

He knew he ought to be lucky to be alive, but the reality that he was in this strange place, his body broken and everything he had had taken away, made him feel like he might suffocate. He had no money for the telegrams he still couldn't write, he didn't know who he could trust, and didn't know to whom he could go when he was well enough. 

He knew – he supposed he should say 'suspected', but he harboured no doubts – that the man had stolen his papers to escape. Where he was now, whether his bold efforts had been successful, Jack had no way of knowing. In all likelihood, he would never know. The man, the _Masakh_ as the woman called him, had brutalized young women for months, all the while knowing he could get away with murder. And one day, he did. Jack had simply been a well-timed parachute. 

He tried to occupy his mind, to work the details of the case that he knew. Perhaps the second man, the other Englishman newly arrived, would be able to help. He tried to reassure himself that when he was well enough be able to be both careful and strong, to defend himself if the man had high-placed accomplices, he would do whatever he could to help seek justice for the murdered girl. 

But he knew it was a thin hope. He wasn't a policeman here, just Jack Robinson, and not even that, he thought grimly. He was _John Doe_ until he could prove otherwise, and he was at the mercy of a kind woman, time, and a broken body. 

In the meantime, he tried to keep his thoughts away from Phryne – where she was, what she was doing, what they had lost. 

There was no changing what had happened, but he had been a fool, he knew. A cautious idiot, holding himself apart from her for months when he should have been falling on his knees. 

He'd never treated her like a skittish deer in any other way – he’d trusted her, challenged her, and fought alongside her. _So why hadn't he fought for her?_ Not by asking her to change, but by telling her she'd changed him. He should have showed her that he’d share everything he was with her. Instead, he'd waited until the propeller was spinning, her course set and her future wide open, to give her even the smallest sign of how wholly she held his heart. 

He hadn't he told her he was coming after her. He'd have said, all those weeks ago, it was because he wanted to surprise her, but it wasn't; not really. He hadn't wanted to risk her saying no. He hadn't wanted to impose, to frighten, to give her seven weeks to change her mind. 

Jack walked slowly to the table, and lowered himself to a chair. The woman had left for the consulate, hoping to use her English skills to get a job there, or to see if they knew of an opening somewhere else. She would not go back to the hospital, she said. She could not face the ghosts. 

Jack was grateful for the privacy. It had become increasingly difficult in the last days to negotiate the small space together. The weight of being entirely dependent, and entirely beholden, to this relative stranger grew with each day as Jack became more himself. Things too intimate remained adamantly unspoken – that she had tended to him, all of him, when he was close to dying; that she was betraying all of her upbringing by having him there at all; that they were a man and a woman living in a few hundred square feet, in a country where a woman's hair was believed too intimate to display. 

The fewer bandages Jack needed, the more space they gave each other. Now she often left for short periods and he suspected it was simply to give him time alone. During the day, they spoke of mundane things: the heat, the number of ships in port, the naughty tomcat from next door who tipped pots off of windowsills. 

Only at night, when the breeze blowing through the window was mercifully cool and the lamps were dark, if they were both awake, did they speak of other things. Her sister. His life. Her lost family. His lost love. With the pink sky of dawn, modesty would return. 

One night, voice heavy with sleep, he had spoken into the darkness. 

“What does it mean, _Masakh_?” 

There was no answer, and he had thought she was asleep. Minutes later, her had risen from behind the screen. 

“ _Monster_.” 

Now, he leaned heavily on the table, running a hand over his face and grimacing when he felt the length of stubble. He'd managed to start shaving again, using a decent safety razor the woman had procured from her cousin, but it was slow going with his uninjured hand, so he waited days between doing it. 

Nevertheless, he was improving. Four days after sitting up for the first time, he had been able to do so unassisted, and a day after that, he'd managed to get unsteadily to his feet. The knife wound on his chest was still painful and still bled if he exerted himself, but the burns had healed to the point where he was able to go without all but a few bandages. His eyebrows had grown back, and, though there would be some scarring, his right hand was nearly healed enough to go without wrappings. He still couldn't hold a pen, though, and though his voice was almost normal, his breathing often became difficult. 

He wondered again if anyone had noticed his disappearance. As the days continued to pass, thoughts turned almost constantly to how soon he'd be able to leave, make contact with officials in Port Said, and let someone know he was alive and more or less intact. It was always Phryne, when he imagined it, but immediately, his gut would clench, and he'd regret the thought. Now more than ever, she was elsewhere, living her life, without him, and with every day that passed, he grew more convinced that it was likely just the way she wanted it. 

**** 

The sun was bright orange and low by the time the woman returned, the heat of the day finally beginning to abate. Jack had lain down to rest after shaving, and raised his head when he heard the door creak. 

She smiled warmly as she entered, and proudly tipped her shopping basket towards him, displaying several joints of what looked to Jack like lamb, and some vegetables. 

“Tonight,” she said, “We will have a feast. I will make a dish my mother makes, for celebrations.” She set the basket down on the table and began pulling bowls, and jars of spices and nuts from the open shelves. 

“You got a job?” 

She nodded, her beaming smile betraying the shyness in her eyes. 

“At the consulate. I will help in the kitchen. I will not be a doctor, but it is a good job.” 

Jack had forced himself to sitting, and smiled. “Congratulations. I have no doubt you would make an excellent doctor, but a good job is a thing to celebrate.” 

They spoke casually as she cooked, the aromas of meat, spices and toasting nuts piquing Jack’s returning appetite. 

When finally they sat, side by side, steaming bowls of a thick lamb soup in front of them, Jack raised his glass of water in a toast. 

Curious, she did the same, and he touched his glass to hers with a tilted grin. 

The food was delicious, and Jack ate better than he had since leaving the ship. He told her about Mac, and his esteem for his colleague and her skills. The woman listened raptly, peppering him with questions he couldn’t answer about Mac’s experience and her training. He was acutely aware that as difficult as her career had been for Elizabeth Macmillan, it would be exponentially so for a woman like the one sitting in front of him, to the point of being impossible. He was once again struck by the unfairness of the world, and the enormous strength and capacity of half of its inhabitants. He almost chuckled; Phryne would be proud. 

Afterwards, they sat at the table together, lingering rather than cleaning up and retreating to their separate corners. 

“I think it's time I left.” Jack was looking at the table, his good hand spinning his glass in slow circles. 

“You are still unwell.” 

“Not so much as before, and I have outstayed my welcome.” 

“No,” she said softly. “You are always welcome.” 

There was a long pause, and Jack wondered if there was any way he'd live long enough to repay such a debt. 

“You saved my life. I wish I had money to thank you...” he trailed off. “I'm not a wealthy man.” 

She was silent, and neither looked up. 

“When I am home, back to my life,” he swallowed. “Back to myself, I will write to you. And from then on, anything – anything, ever, that you need, you must tell me.” 

The woman’s eyes were large and kind as she nodded to thank him shyly. She shifted as if to rise from her chair, then frowned, a smile playing on her lips. 

“How will I know your letter?” 

Jack looked at her. “I beg your pardon?” 

“How will I know your letter when I don’t even know your name?” 

He huffed out a laugh in disbelief. 

“It’s Jack. Jack Robinson.” 

She smiled almost shyly. 

“I am honoured to meet you, Jack Robinson. I am Habiba.” 

***** 

Phryne and Evan rendezvoused at Evan's office the next morning, having called the Wells residence in town to apprise them of the visit. It was the day of their departure, and Phryne was actually grateful for something to fill the hours until take-off. 

“Mr. Archibald Wells will be there, but according to him his son is ' _travelling_ ',” said Evan as they pulled up to the Knightsbridge home. Phryne peered up at the four storey building, slightly surprised it wasn't more ostentatious, but she supposed the inside might be worse. 

Phryne rang the bell, and they waited on the landing until a timid looking young woman opened the door. 

“Mr. Darling and Miss Fisher to see Mr. Wells, please.” Evan dropped his card onto the small silver tray proffered by the maid, and raised his eyebrows at Phryne when the girl turned away and retreated down the long hall behind her without so much as a word. 

Phryne shrugged back, and took the opportunity to look around. A taxidermied ostrich stood a foot or so away, its feet gilded and obviously stuck to the polished onyx base. The walls were a deep purple with orange and gold drapes hung at the corners of the room, tied with massive gold tassels. A sitting room, visible through a door to the right of the hall promised even more gilding, along with what was apparently an entire menagerie of stuffed wildlife. A rhinoceros stood belligerently beside a white baby grand piano, and four shiny beavers graced the marble fireplace mantel. 

Phryne gestured towards the fireplace with wide eyes. 

“Must say, I prefer mine as a hat, but each to his own, I suppose,” Evan kept his face deadpan, which only made Phryne want to laugh harder. 

She had just collected herself when heavy footfalls sounded from above, and a booming voice preceded their host from upstairs. 

“Welcome! Mr. Darling, Miss Fisher, a pleasure.” 

Mr. Archibald Wells came into view slowly, a step at a time, a gold and ivory cane clicking beside him. 

“Lovely to meet you,” said Phryne, extending her gloved hand when Mr. Wells had finally made it to the bottom of the flight. 

He took it, managing to pull it to his mouth for a kiss between wheezes. 

“And Mr. Darling. So enchanted to make your acquaintance. Unless we've met before, at some function or another, and I've forgotten, which is entirely possible. Age, you see my dear,” huffed the man, offering his arm to Phryne. “Not for the faint of heart! Everything goes, I'm afraid: memory is just the beginning.” 

Phryne took his arm with a quick glance back at Evan, and allowed Mr. Wells to lead them into the garish sitting room. 

“Sit, sit,” he thundered, releasing Phryne towards a couch the colour of newly mown grass. “Abigail! Tea!” 

Phryne imagined Abigail was the mouse who had admitted them, and suddenly felt much more sympathetic towards the girl. 

“Mr. Wells,” Phryne began. 

“Archie, please!” 

Phryne forced a smile. “Archie.” She couldn't help recall the last time she'd used the name, and it brought her back to the reason for their visit with a dead weight. 

“Archie, we're hoping to ask you a few questions about your son, Gerald. I understand you told Mr. Darling on the telephone that he's once again left England?” 

“Yes, yes. Off again! Quite the adventurer, my boy. Never had a mum, really, not since my wife died when the lad was only 3. Did my best, and he's an awfully clever young man! Yes, sir, it'll be all his one day, Wells Developments, all his.” 

All the while he was speaking, Mr. Wells' leg was bouncing up and down at an alarming rate, and his fat right hand fidgeted with the carved ivory cap of his cane. 

“Does he enjoy the work?” Phryne asked. “Of the business?” 

“Oh yes, yes, very much,” said Wells. “Does a good job. I sent him to Egypt, last fall, to work on the hospital there. Expanding they are, bustling port city like that, and the building they're in just isn't doing it anymore. Gerald looked after everything...” 

Wells seemed to hesitate, and Phryne caught Evan's eye. 

“Sounds impressive, Mr. Wells. Was Gerald there alone, from the company?” asked Evan. 

“Er, well, I'm not able to get around well now, with my leg, you understand, so it's awfully helpful to have the next in command as it were able to take my place abroad. We're doing more work like that now, contracts with the British government...” 

Phryne leaned forward and “accidentally” dropped her gloves on the floor. The distraction was enough to interrupt Mr. Wells, and she attempted to get him back to the question. 

“A challenging task for even a seasoned businessman, I imagine, Mr. Wells. Does Gerald travel with anyone when he works on these contracts? An assistant, someone else from the company, or a valet, perhaps?” 

“Oh no, not a valet, not Gerald. Too fussy for him. Likes to keep to himself, mostly. I do send a man, though, like to Egypt, and he and the lad seem to get on alright. Name is Sykes, Denholm Sykes. He had Gerald have been working together, oh,” he leaned back, staring at the ceiling, as if he would find the number there. “Seven years, now. Been all over, they have." 

Phryne wanted to pull out her notebook, but was suddenly afraid of scaring Mr. Wells off his stories. 

“Mr. Sykes,” said Phryne lightly, “Does he get on well with your son then?” 

“Oh he seems to, alright; I've never heard complaint from either one, though I can't say that they're close friends mind you. But business associates, I suppose you'd say. Hard man, Sykes, but a good head for business.” 

Evan leaned forward just as Amelia entered with a huge silver tea service. She set it down awkwardly on the low table between the chairs, and gave a nervous glance to her employer. 

“Well get on, girl! Pour the tea! Don't just stand there like a statue!” 

That's all you need, a girl to go with your macabre menagerie. Phryne felt compelled to leap to the maid's defence. 

“Why don't I be mother, Mr. Wells?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him a moment, and gave Amelia what she hoped was an understanding if covert smile. 

If Evan was appalled by her choice of phrase, he thankfully didn't show it. 

“So,” said Phryne, gracefully pouring from the ornate pot. “Is Mr. Sykes back in England now, or does the work keep him in Port Said?” 

Mr. Wells seemed to falter for a moment, and Phryne and Evan exchanged a quick glance. 

“Err... He's still there, wrapping up the project, you understand. Just a few more weeks, a month or two.” 

Wells sipped his tea, but his gaze was darting around the room, his leg never having ceased its jiggling. 

“Mr. Wells,” Phryne, setting her cup down on the silver tray. “I believe you know why we’re here. We are not the police. I know this must be difficult for you, but we know your son is a wanted man.” 

The older man lifted his head quickly, slopping tea out of the cup onto his saucer. His mouth opened as if to say something, but no sound came out. 

Evan's voice was low and steady. “We know he was here, Sir. We know he left Port Said through less than legitimate means, and that he returned to London, presumably to this house, on the 19th of December. At that time, it's unlikely any of the authorities would have been aware of his flight from Egypt, let alone his return, and it would have been relatively easy for him to make his way here.” He looked at Phryne. 

“He needed money, didn't he,” she said. 

Archibald Wells suddenly appeared smaller and older than he had when they'd arrived. He looked from one to the other of his guests, his eyes watery and wide. For the first time since they'd sat down, his leg was still. 

He nodded. 

Evan spoke. “I imagine you are aware of what your son has been accused of in Port Said. Miss Fisher and I cannot comment on that allegation, but we're investigating a possible crime that he might have committed in his efforts to leave the port.” 

“Mr. Wells,” said Phryne, “I need your help. A very dear friend of mine went missing in Port Said the day Gerald escaped. It appears your son somehow accosted him, stole his documents, and took his place on a ship from Australia bound for England. That was over a month ago, and no one has heard from him since.” 

Phryne got up and crossed to sit beside the old man on the long divan. 

She reached into her handbag, and pulled out Jack's sheriff’s badge, unable to resist brushing her thumb over it before resting it in her palm. Wells blinked a few times, looking at it. 

“He gave it to me,” Phryne said, almost to herself. “I think it was his most treasured possession. He's a good man, Archie. A kind, noble, good man, and I need to find out what's happened to him. I don't know where Gerald is now, and honestly, I don't care. But if you know anything else that might help me find my partner, please tell me.” 

Archie's mouth worked for a few seconds behind his closed lips as though he were trying to chew on something. Finally, he spoke, never taking his eyes off the little piece of tin. 

“Denholm Sykes. He's not a bad man, you understand. Just,” he paused, not bothering to wipe away the silent tears. “He's had to cover a lot of Gerald's.... indiscretions. He's still there, in Said. He'll know if anyone does.” 

Evan's voice was quiet but stern. “And your son?” 

The old man shook his head. 

“He didn't tell me. I don't know where he is. I'm sorry.” 

He looked down at the pin, and reached out to pick it up, his large hand trembling slightly. 

“I pray you find him, Miss Fisher,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I really do. I'm... I'm so sorry. So sorry,” he repeated. He pressed the badge into Phryne’s open palm. 

Wells rose unsteadily from the divan, leaning heavily on his cane, and made his way to the doorway of the parlour. Once there, he steadied himself on the door frame and lowered his head. 

“I did the best I could with the lad, once his mother... I'd hoped.... I'm so terribly, terribly sorry.” 

Phryne watched as he pulled himself up stairs, once again breathing heavily. She closed her fingers around the pin and stood. 

It was time to go. 


	8. Chapter 8

The noise from the giant silver beast on the runway was deafening, but Phryne seemed not to hear it, her eyes bright as they swept appreciatively along its sides. Evan offered his arm as they crossed the tarmac to the steep staircase leading to the door, holding his hat on with his free hand. 

“She's beautiful,” he called over the noise.

“She certainly is,” answered Phryne. Unlike the aeroplanes Phryne had flown, this one had only one set of wings: thick and solid-looking, with two propellers each near the body. The sun glinting off the metal hull was blinding. “And a good day for flying,” she called. 

“It looks like a submarine, or something from one of Mr. Verne's stories!” yelled Evan, finally giving up and grasping his hat just as it lifted from his head on a gust. 

Phryne, having had more experience with flying than her companion, had chosen a tight-fitting fur hat. She had dressed elegantly but with comfort in mind, in flowing light wool trousers in black, and a deep burgundy silk blouse under her wool-and-fox fur coat. She had arranged with Damson to have the two trunks of clothes and gifts she'd purchased while in England shipped home via steamer, and carefully had Deirdre pack only light, versatile and modest things for her flight. She knew Westerners in Egypt were permitted more leeway with their attire than the local women, but she never set out to offend. Plunging necklines and handkerchief hems might be acceptable at an consulate party in Cairo, but not while trying to blend in on a case. At the last minute, she'd thrown in one of the gorgeous new gowns she'd had made in London. With Evan, there was a good chance there would be a consular function, and she wanted to be prepared, but unwanted visions of a slow and steady waltz crowded her mind. She almost reconsidered - whether from superstition or premonition, she couldn't say – but the gown had been carefully folded into her bag. 

When they reached the bottom of the metal staircase, Phryne smiled at the attendant, smartly attired in pale blue livery with two rows of golden buttons marching down his chest. 

“Welcome aboard British Imperial, Miss Fisher, Mr. Darling!”

Evan nodded at the attendant, and ushered Phryne ahead of him up the stairs. The pamphlets hadn't exaggerated; inside, the appointments were every bit as elegant as in a high-end hotel. The forward cabin of the plane was set with plush, high-backed seats, all facing the cockpit. Curtains framed the oval windows beside each seat, and individual tables unfolded from beside the arm rests. Behind this lounge of sorts was the dining room, where tables seating four or six were nestled into the small space, banquettes replacing dining chairs. To the rear of the dining room was a corridor hiding the kitchen, leading to the sleeping berths and the toilets. 

Phryne and Evan's bags had already been stowed in their berths, and guests, as they were known, were being offered fluted glasses of ice cold Champagne as they waited for the rest of the passengers to board. 

Evan looked at Phryne as a young attendant disappeared with their hats and coats, leaving them practically reclining in luxury in the lounge. 

“I'm not a fan of flying, generally, at least not since the war, but I daresay I could get used to this! Cheers, P. To a successful journey.”

He leaned over his armrest, tilting his glass toward hers. Phryne toasted gamely, but her smile was thin. 

“I can't shake the feeling I'm heading towards a terrible thing,” she said, after a sip of her drink.

“We don't know anything yet, P. We'll be there in a few short days, and we'll track down this Sykes character first thing Monday morning.” Evan realized he didn't have any comfort to offer her beyond this, and he bit his lip unconsciously. “We'll just take it from there.”

Within a quarter of an hour, the seats around them filled with 18 other well-heeled travellers, and the cabin was humming with murmurs of excitement. Crisp, white-uniformed attendants offered drinks and magazines, and described what to expect on take-off. 

Phryne sat back and looked out the window at the last view of grey England she'd have for what she hoped was a long while. She didn't mind leaving places; she'd done a great deal of it in her life, almost always by choice. Not since she'd crossed the ocean for the first time, leaving her home and her country and the ghost of her sister, had she ever regretted a departure.

Until Jack. 

She had believed, at the time, that she'd return. Of course she would. Unless the wide world offered her something magnificent, something shiny or deliciously dangerous, she would come back, because for the first time in her life, it was home. But it was the thought of him – the _fact_ of him – not her home, not her friends, not her work or even her self-made-family, that had refused to remain earth-bound as she'd climbed higher into the sky. 

She had not known, not wanted to see or feel, that Jack Robinson had gently, steadily, wound his way into the centre of her world, and that although she might leave home, and him, he held cords that were bound so tightly to her, she could feel their pull like a fakir's hook in her flesh. 

“He thinks I left because of him.”

Evan opened his eyes, frowning a little as he oriented himself. The plane had been in the air for an hour or so, the sun bright outside, the clouds looking like cotton. 

“Phryne?”

“I didn't, not really. I left because I had to get my father here.” Phryne caught Evan's downturned glance at her words. 

“It's alright, I know it sounds preposterous. But it's true, there was no other way, and I can't regret it.”

“Not preposterous, P, or at least, not for you.” Evan paused. “Are you going to tell me what happened, with Jack Robinson?”

Phryne leaned her head back on the bolster and looked out the window.

“Not enough, I think.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “Do you ever think there are different kinds of bravery?”

 

Evan frowned. “I don't believe I've given it much thought, actually.”

“I have. Well, recently, in any case. The thing is, I've always been brave. I wanted to be as a child, and I had to be, I think. And I have a life that I love, that I _made_ , because I was determined to be fearless and to have it.”

“So where does Jack Robinson come in?”

Phryne looked down at her hands and smiled sadly. “That's just it; before I knew it, he had come in, and in a way no one ever has. And I wasn't sure I was brave enough to keep him there, to let myself be the person that could.”

Evan sat back in his seat and reached a hand over, covering Phryne's on her lap. “I'm afraid I can't give you any advice on love, Phry. Not exactly my speciality.”

She laughed softly. “Mine either, it appears.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized it. “I think we were both waiting.”

“For?”

“The other person to be brave first. And he was.” She smiled, thinking of a fumbled overture in a darkened field, and his large warm hand spanning her waist.

“And I left.”

“Phryne, people aren't chess pieces; we don't follow moves and always do the right thing. We're messy and stupid and even fearful.” Evan shifted so he could see her better. “But the beautiful thing is that all of that means that nothing is ever over, not completely.”

Phryne shook her head. “Some things end, darling. Some things have a time and if it passes...” she shrugged. “All those months, it was exciting and wonderful, and I told myself that I could have the game – our friendship, our partnership and the promise of something more – and still remain exactly who I had always been.”

“And?”

“I think I already wasn't that person anymore. I just wasn't brave enough to see it. The thing is, I love the person I am with him. I’m better. Stronger. Kinder.” Phryne blinked hard against tears. “I was an utter coward, and he deserved so much more.”

“Phryne, he was crossing the world for you. It seems to me he got the message.”

She shook her head and looked out the window. “He should never have had to wonder. Not ever, not for a moment. If I'd been brave, we wouldn't be here now. He would be safe.” Her voice broke on the last word.

Evan squeezed her hands, still wrapped in his larger one. 

“If he's....” She closed her eyes. “If we're too late..... I don't know what I'll do.”

***

As it turned out, travelling via the world’s most advanced and luxurious airline was only marginally more comfortable than crossing the world in her Gypsy Moth. True, the seats were more plush and the beverage service appreciated, but between the multiple stops each day for refueling and supplies, and the wild swings in temperature in the so-called “climate-controlled cabins”, Phryne was becoming more agitated by the hour. Add to that the uncomfortable proximity of their fellow passengers, and she and Evan were abundantly grateful they were only aboard for three days. 

Late Sunday afternoon, the stewards once again requested that the guests take their seats in the forward cabin for landing in Cairo. Phryne fidgeted with her canvas hat as she looked out the window. The city sprawled low beneath them, a carpet of sand-coloured buildings and wide avenues, dotted with the spires of minarets like well-placed candlesticks. In the distance, the great pyramids sat their vigil.

“Have you ever seen the pyramids at Giza before?” asked Evan, peering over her shoulder to glimpse the scene below.

She shook her head, staring at the massive structures as the plane circled the city. In any other situation, her heart would be beating faster, imagining days of adventure: of climbing to the top of the monuments, of camel rides, and mint tea in gilded glasses. Instead her head swam with visions of dark things, and her heart beat faster out of fear. 

She’d grown quieter the closer they drew to Egypt, and Evan had stopped trying to engage her more than she wanted. They ate together companionably, they read alongside each other in the stretches between landings, but there was little relief in the seriousness of Phryne’s mood, and he could only allow her what space she could find. 

Phryne was gracious as ever disembarking and thanking the staff, but Evan saw even more clearly in the setting sunlight the lines on her face and the darkness under her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping, and hadn’t been eating much of anything either. Phryne Fisher was easily the strongest, most resilient person he knew, but he found himself worrying more and more often what would happen if she learned the worst. And try as he might, Evan was hard-pressed to see an ending to their quest that was not tragic. It had just been too long. 

As promised, a stately black car was waiting on the tarmac as the pair disembarked. Their papers were stamped by Egyptian officials quickly, thanks to Evan’s diplomatic ties, and within 30 minutes, their bags were locked in the boot and Phryne and Evan were settling into the back seat. 

“They’re expecting us at the consulate tomorrow morning,” Evan said as the car navigated the narrow winding streets of Cairo on the way to the Desert Road that would take them to the port. 

Phryne nodded. “Were they concerned when you didn’t give a reason for your visit?”

“Not at all, I think,’ said Evan. “not that out of the ordinary, and better this way for us.”

“I would hate to give our Mr. Sykes any indication ahead of time why we’re here. Thank you, again, Evan.”

He smiled. 

“So what is your plan then, Phry? I’m sure we can trust the fellow I know at the consulate, but I’ve no idea if he’ll even know this Sykes bloke.”

“Well, we’ll have to go and see what we find. If Sykes is still in Port Said, and he was involved in either helping Wells or covering up for him, he will have information about Jack. And if he is still in town... after tomorrow, he’ll wish he wasn’t.”

A dust storm delayed their arrival in Port Said by several hours, and it was approaching midnight when they pulled up at the Casino Place Hotel. Porters in crimson and gold quickly took their bags, and Phryne asked that a light supper be brought up to each of their rooms. Hers was on the third floor, his on the first, and they parted in the lobby promising to meet for breakfast. 

“Do try to get some sleep, P. At least the bed will be an improvement over the last few nights,” Evan said kindly.

Phryne pulled her hat off, smoothing her hair behind it. She nodded.

“I’ll try.”

But sleep was elusive that night, and the fear that this might be the last night she held hope haunted her like a specter until dawn.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, lovelies! 2 chapters today, because the pitchforks were getting a little close for comfort.... ;) Thank you thank you for so much passion and encouragement. <3 Here. Have some Jack.

As it was, it was a further five days before Jack gathered his few possessions – a razor, a toothbrush, the remaining bandages and a small pot of salve, and the packet of blood-stained papers – into a thickly woven bag which Habiba had given him. She watched from the corner where she stood, cutting up fruit for their breakfast, and neither said a word. 

Her cousin Faheem had found him a full length _galabeya_ , cream with dark purple stitching along the yolk, and although Jack was deeply grateful, he wished he had his own clothes. Everything he'd worn the day of the attack had been ruined; what hadn't been soaked in blood had been burned. 

When Faheem arrived to take them to the consulate, Jack paused at the door of the flat, Habiba already partway down the narrow staircase outside. He swept his eyes one last time over the space that had been his hospital, his safe house, and his home. He had no idea if he would be back later that day, or never again.

“Jack Robinson,” a voice called from the bottom of the stairwell. 

Jack slung the bag over his right shoulder, and shut the door.

Habiba’s cousin had arranged a horse cart to take them from her building to the consulate. Jack still tired easily, the wound on his chest not fully healed, and the consulate was fair distance away. When he stepped out from the arched alcove at bottom of the stairwell, squinting at the sun, he saw Habiba speaking to a dark, burly man holding the bridle of a chestnut pony. They both turned as Jack made his way towards them, and the man grinned broadly. Habiba smiled behind him as he rushed to take Jack’s arm. 

“As salam aleykum!” he said warmly. The way his eyes crinkled deeply as he smiled made Jack like him immediately. That and the fact that the man had saved him from being burned alive. 

“You are so much healed, my friend!” the man beamed. “I cannot say how frightened I was.”

“You were not the only one,” Jack said. “I cannot possibly thank you enough.”

“No. I did what any man would. My cousin and Allah are to thank for the….” he turned to Habiba, who had climbed into the pony’s small cart, speaking to her in Arabic and gesturing with his outstretched hands. 

“Ah, miracle,” she said.

“Miracle,” he repeated. “You are meant for great things, my friend.”

Jack gave him a tilted smile. “Please, call me Jack.”

“Jack,” the man repeated. “I am Faheem.”

Jack went to reach out with his right hand, then looked down at the still-bandaged two fingers and scarred skin. He grimaced apologetically before extending his left hand, and the man laughed as he shook it. He helped Jack onto the narrow seat in the cart, then climbed up behind the pony and flicked the reins. 

In spite of not having been outside in weeks, Jack hardly noticed the city as they made their way through the chaotic traffic of people, carts, horses and cars towards the consulate. A knot had been forming in his gut for days that had nothing to do with his wound. He knew what it was to be unarmed, to be disarmed, and he had had his share of events in his life that had rendered him vulnerable. But he had never once felt as exposed and defenseless as he did now. He was without his identity, his home, even the clothing that informed who he was, and he was finally at the point of reckoning. Jack didn’t doubt he would get his identity back, at least eventually. The Victoria Police department had his records and photo on file, and would supply them to the consulate without hesitation. The process might take some time, but it was unlikely he would be permanently stranded. 

The tightest part of the knot was that having had virtually everything in his life stripped away, he had realized the one thing that meant most was the one thing he wouldn’t likely get back. It had been too long, with too much silence, and now the best he could offer was the damaged body of a coward.

Jack swallowed a few times, trying to tamp down the sick feeling and focus on what Faheem was saying. As they bumped along behind the pony, Faheem’s body perpetually angled back to Jack and Habiba, they went over their story. Faheem would tell the British officials that after he had witnessed the attack, and he had taken Jack to the home of a friend, who preferred to remain anonymous. He hadn’t brought him to the hospital because he’d recognized the Englishman, and didn’t trust that Jack would be safe. Habiba’s reputation would remain unblemished, but she would be able to comment as the sister of the murdered woman. Habiba fidgeted nervously with her scarf as they approached the consulate. She had diffidently asked Jack to promise not to reveal the truth, that he had been her guest. Her eyes had flashed with pride as she’d assured him she was not ashamed, but others, including her new employers, would hold her in great disgrace. Jack was struck again at the radical generosity of this woman, and his almost impossible luck that her cousin had been the one to find him. He was under no illusions; he owed these people his life.

Jack found he had no qualms about effectively lying to the consular officials. The location of his convalescence was immaterial to the case, and the truth would condemn his saviour to an unbearable burden. It was an easy choice. 

Eventually, the cart slowed in front of an imposing two-storey building on a corner, rows of round columns supporting austere arches on both levels. Faheem nervously licked his lips as he brought the pony to a stop and turned back to Jack and Habiba. 

“Ready?”

They nodded. 

“May we have Allah on our side,” said Faheem as he tied the pony’s reins to an iron post. “May we catch the _Masakh_ and send our friend back to his home and family.”

He clapped a firm, gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. 

_Or at least his own world, if not home and family_ , thought Jack, unable to dispel the memory of lonely nights spent at his desk, filling hours with paperwork because the person he’d come to think of as ‘home’ was ten thousand miles away. But the wish was a kind one, and he thanked Faheem with a nod. 

The soft sandals that the three wore made no sound on the elaborate tile floor of the consulate. They paused in the entrance hall, letting their eyes adjust to the dim. A large, airy lounge lay just left of the foyer, and several men sat reading newspapers, china cups of tea on the small tables beside them. A handful of people came and went through the arched passage to the street as the trio stood off to the side, getting their bearings. At a desk in one corner, an older woman in a cream linen suit greeted many of the passers-by. She looked up and smiled as they approached. 

“Good morning, can I help you?” She peered at them over the half-moon spectacles she wore before deciding to remove them entirely.

Jack and Faheem stuttered for a moment, each tripping over the other’s words. Finally, Jack spoke, setting his shoulders back and imagining he was clad in his three piece suit and fedora, not a what felt like a flimsy nightgown. 

“My name is Jack Robinson. I am an Australian citizen, and a Senior Detective Inspector with the Victoria Police force in Melbourne. Six weeks ago, I was attacked, my documents stolen, and I was left for dead. We have reason to believe the man who attacked me was working with the consulate at the time, and used my papers to flee the country. I wish to speak with a senior member of the Consular staff, and the member responsible for legal matters.”

The woman’s jaw had dropped progressively lower the longer Jack had spoken. When he finished, she swallowed several times, then drew herself up in her chair, replaced her spectacles, and pulled a telephone towards her from the corner of the desk. 

No one spoke as she dialed a number, then waited for the other end to pick up. 

“Yes, Mr. Graham? There’s a gentleman here you’ll want to see.”

****

Ten minutes later, Jack was being shown into a sunny office on the second floor of the building. The woman from the front desk held out a hand to stop Habiba and Faheem as they made to follow Jack. 

“You are welcome to wait in the hallway, or perhaps you would be more comfortable in the lounge, downstairs?”

Habiba’s eyes flashed between Jack’s and Faheem’s, and Jack frowned slightly. 

“We will wait here,” said Faheem firmly, and Jack read in his eyes that should he need anything, they would be right outside. He nodded imperceptibly. 

The man behind the desk rose as Jack entered the office, and held out his hand. He was paunchy and pale, his ill-fitting suit already wilted from the heat, beads of sweat dotting his hairline. 

“Wilbur Graham, Deputy Consul-General,” he said, lowering himself to his seat behind the desk, and regarding Jack with an imperious stare. “Mr. Robinson, these are serious allegations.”

“Very serious, Mr. Graham, and they are more than allegations; my injuries attest to that. I know I have no jurisdiction here, and the last thing I want is to complicate an ongoing investigation. But it seems to me as both a police officer of the Crown, and as a victim in this case, that I have something significant to contribute. The people outside are not only my friends, but I owe them my life. They put their own safety on the line to help me, and both have lost more even than I have. Habiba’s sister, Faiza Mohammed, was murdered at the British Hospital, we believe by the same man who accosted me. I presume it is still an open case?”

Graham shifted uncomfortably in his cane-backed seat, his large fingers beginning to toy with a beautiful paperweight on his desk. The weight was a pale blue glass orb (Venetian, Jack guessed) perched on a golden plinth, with a tiny perfect sailing ship suspended in the bubble. For an absurd moment, Jack recalled the feeling of the sway of the Orient, and the comfort he’d drawn from even the rockiest nights on board. Each one had been bringing him closer to Phryne, and he’d endured every bout of sickness and every storm as a rite of passage. 

He clenched his jaw to rid himself of the memory, and a shadow flitted across Graham’s fleshy face, thinking the action was posturing on Jack’s part. 

_Let him think it._

Years of reading people quickly had honed Jack’s instincts, and he knew just the sort of soft, spineless cog the man before him was. He didn’t for a moment imagine Graham was a mastermind, but he knew more than he was letting on. 

The Deputy Consul-General cleared his throat. “I am not at liberty to comment on an ongoing investigation, but I will allow that your testimony might be useful. I’m not able to devote the time to it today, as we are preparing for a function this evening, but tomorrow I will have my assistant take down your statement of events.”

It wasn’t quite the response Jack had been hoping for, but it was a start. 

“And my papers, sir. I understand it won’t be immediate, but if you telegraph the Police Commissioner in Melbourne, Australia, they can provide any evidence you require to verify my identity. I would be very grateful if it could be done as swiftly as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

Mr. Graham seemed infinitely more comfortable discussing such typically consular matters, and relaxed visibly. In his case, however, relaxing only made him more condescending, and Jack thought that he might like “defensive” better. 

“Yes, yes, Mr. Robinson, quite. I shall have my assistant wire the authorities in Australia. But you understand it is a process, and can take some time to verify an identity without any papers present.” He sat back in his chair, holding his pen between both sets of fingers. 

Jack’s jaw twitched. “Surely the fact that the Victorian Constabulary has all of my details, including my photograph, on file, should make this particular case considerably less complicated? With all due respect, sir, I am going on two months without identity papers, passport, funds, even my own clothing. Expeditiousness would be greatly appreciated.”

Jack felt the wound in his chest throb as the colour rose in his cheeks, and had to force himself to take a deep breath. 

_Phryne would have had this doughy paper-pusher wrapped around her little finger inside of a minute._

Once again, he felt the void beside him like a draught.

Mr. Graham rose from his seat and regarded Jack coolly. 

"My assistant will be in touch, Mr. Robinson. Good d-”

“How?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jack remained in his seat, his head tilted, somehow managing to look taller and more imposing that the wide man who stood before him.

“How will your assistant be in touch, when I haven’t given you an address at which to reach me? The fact is, Mr. Graham, I do not have an address, nor a telephone number, nor a post office box. I have nothing, and I am here as a citizen of the British Empire, a veteran of the War, asking for assistance. Is there a reason I should not expect to receive it?”

If Wilbur Graham had been a thug from the darkest alley in Little Lon, he would have at this point likely given up his mother. As it was, Wilbur Graham was far from a seasoned criminal, and Jack watched him crumble almost in slow motion. 

The large man collapsed into his chair, his hand trembling as it passed over his face. His voice was almost inaudible when he spoke.

“I don’t know how it all went so wrong.” 

“I think you’d better start from the beginning, Mr. Graham.”

The man looked up at Jack, terror in his eyes. “I can’t. You don’t understand, I can’t. I’m so terribly sorry, but you have to believe me, I can’t help you. Please. You have to leave…” He started shuffling papers on his desk, and ignoring Jack as if he wasn’t there. 

“Mister Graham!” Jack’s deep voice rang out in the big room. “I can see you are afraid of someone. I will do everything I can to advise you as well as I know how in order to stay safe. But proceeding as if nothing is amiss is out of the question.”

Jack studied the cowed figure before him. Graham was obviously terrified, and it couldn’t be of the balding man, who was likely many time zones away. There had to be someone else, an accomplice who was still in Port Said.

_God,_ he thought, _if he only had his badge! And his gun, and his team…. And his partner_. But he was still an investigator, and he’d do his damndest even with his hands tied behind his back. 

“Mr. Graham, I need you to give me a name. I can find out myself, just by going to the British Hospital, or getting my friends to do the same. Tell me who tried to kill me, who murdered Faiza Mohammed. And then tell me who his friends are, or so help me when I take them down, I will take you down with them.”

Graham looked up, his eyes red rimmed. He seemed to consider defiance for a brief moment, and then slumped down again, gripping his pen and tearing a scrap of paper out of a notebook. 

He held the paper out to Jack, who reached for it with his good hand. 

“There is a block of rooms, in the hotel across the street,” said Graham. “We retain them for visiting staff and guests of the consulate. I will see that you are put up there until your documents are reinstated. There will be a fee, in the end, but nominal.” He kept his eyes averted, his hand coming to cradle the glass paperweight again.

“I don’t know what can be done. Truly. But I will try to get your documents as quickly as possible. I can at least do that.” He nodded as if to comfort himself.

Jack rose gingerly, his outburst having renewed the fire in his wound. Gathering his bag, he paused for one last look at the figure hunched over his desk, then left, shutting the door behind him. 

Faheem stood as soon as Jack emerged from the office, his face anxious. 

“I heard your shouts,” he said. “What did he say?”

“He gave me a name, but he’s scared. I’m getting the feeling the man - the Masakh,” Jack said, looking at Habiba, “isn’t our only villain.”

Habiba frowned, her head to one side. 

“I mean, I think there might be someone still here, someone who was helping the man cover his crimes. Graham is scared to talk, but I’ll go back at him tomorrow.”

They walked together towards the wide staircase.

“Mr. Robinson!” a woman’s voice called from back down the hall the way they’d come. A young Englishwoman, smartly dressed in a patterned pink blouse and a navy skirt and jacket, hurried towards them. 

“The Deputy Consul-General asked that I arrange accommodations for you. If you’d be so kind as to wait downstairs, I’ll see that your room is ready inside the hour. It’s the Grand Hotel just opposite.”

“Thank you, Miss...” said Jack.

“Miss Nuttall, Mr. Graham’s assistant.”

 

Jack introduced Habiba and Faheem, and agreed to wait in the lounge.

He wouldn’t be heading back to the apartment after all. As he followed his two friends down the stairs, he wished he could give them some reassurance that he would see justice done for Faiza, but the truth was, he didn’t know. In all likelihood, her killer was thousands of miles away, and Jack was virtually powerless. 

At the entrance to the lounge, Habiba and Faheem stood awkwardly, Habiba’s hand repeatedly tucking and untucking a fold of her headscarf. Jack set his bag on a nearby chair before coming to stand with them. He smiled shyly at the woman who had kept him alive. 

“Jack Robinson,” said Habiba. “You are a good man. I pray you get home safe and well to the people who love you.”

“I wish I could promise that the man who took your sister from you would be caught, but I can’t.”

Faheem shook his head. “That is not your concern, Jack.”

“It is. It’s my concern, my job, my wish. But I am not a policeman here, and…” He shrugged helplessly. “I _can_ promise that I will do everything I can to make sure whoever helped him is exposed, and that neither one of them are ever allowed to come back to this country.”

Habiba nodded. 

“Be safe, Jack Robinson. Be well. Blessings on you and your family.”

“I…” Jack struggled for the words he knew would not come. “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life, both of you. If blessings are bestowed, may they be on you.”

Faheem reached forward and embraced Jack, mindful of his injuries. Jack knew touching of any kind was forbidden between himself and Habiba, so instead he smiled, hoped she saw all of his gratitude in the his eyes. 

A crash from the lobby startled the three of them, and they looked over to see a delivery boy attempting to collect a pile of boxes that had toppled off his cart. Faheem and Habiba turned to leave.

“If I need to reach you, I have the address. And I meant it - when I get back to Australia, I will send word. If you ever need anything,” said Jack.

Habiba turned and looked at him. “ _Maʿ al-salāmah_ , my friend.”

Jack’s brow furrowed in question.

“Have peace.”

Habiba and Faheem walked through the foyer until they became two silhouettes against the brightness of the day, then disappeared.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE NEARLY THERE. And no apologies necessary for the weilding of garden tools or firey sticks - I am so grateful for every single "eeek! Hurry up!". Thank you for all of it. Aaand... erm... *backs away & locks self in protective bunker...*

The modest Grand Hotel was a far cry from the Windsor, but Jack’s small suite might as well have been Buckingham Palace for how luxurious it felt. A small sitting room, a private bath, an electric fan, and a full-sized bed all took second place, however, to the fact that it meant he was alone. For the first time since the _Orient_ , Jack could look forward to a cool bath and a sleep without the stress of impropriety looming. 

He wanted to come up with a plan of attack for wearing down Mr. Graham, but he could only think of rest. He was more exhausted than he’d realized. His chest was bleeding again, and as he peeled off the top layer of bandages after his soak, he realized he’d likely have to get to a hospital tomorrow to have it properly sutured. It didn’t appear infected, but the cut was deep, and the gash just wasn’t knitting together.

He thought for a moment of what a monumental thing Habiba had done, single handedly keeping him alive and healing from injuries that might very well have killed him even if he had been in a hospital. She had cleaned and tended his wound, and painstakingly treated his burns for weeks. The woman would indeed have made an excellent doctor - seemed halfway there already, from what Jack could see, and he was embittered again at how unbalanced the world was. 

He understood why women like Phryne Fisher and Elizabeth Macmillan were so fiercely committed to doing whatever they could to change it. From where he stood, all he could see was that the world would be a much better place if women had more to do with it. 

Jack carefully towelled around the healing burns on his chest, applying some of the salve that Habiba had sent before wrapping his torso in fresh bandages. His hand was greatly improved, but as he slipped between the cool, clean sheets, he wondered how much of the damage would be permanent. He raised his hand to look at it: two fingers still needed wrappings, and the skin on the others was puckered and red.

His thoughts drifted, and he remembered trailing those same two fingers slowly down an ivory throat, holding Phryne’s gaze as though there were an arc of lightning between them. He had longed to draw those fingers lower, to let two become five, five become ten, until finally he felt nothing but her. 

But that had been another life. Another place, another time, and he had been another person. Whole. Connected. Hopeful. 

Jack lowered his hand and turned carefully on his side. At least here, alone, there was no one to hear him weep.

****

Jack Robinson was dreaming. He knew he was, somehow, yet it didn’t make any difference. The scent of her, the feel of the sun pouring through the windows in her parlour were palpable. They were perched in the window seat, her feet tucked in front of her, her slender arms draped around her legs. Her long fingers held a fluted crystal glass, and he noticed he had one too. 

He couldn’t hear her words, but she was laughing, the column of her throat exposed and beckoning him like a fountain. He wondered if he dared kiss her there, if she would welcome it, welcome him. 

And then suddenly it was nightfall, her black lace chemise replaced with a crimson velvet cape, and she stood close to him at the mantel he can see the flecks of green in her eyes, the freckles on her chest. She reached forward, her gaze never leaving his, and plucks the glass from his grasp, replacing it with her own hand. And then they were dancing, her waist through the silk of her gown warm and solid. He couldn’t feel the floor, the air, the room, all he felt was the nearness of her. 

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, and yes, and yes.”

He leaned in to kiss her, and she stopped, her expression suddenly sad. 

“Nothing can come of nothing.”

A crack startled him in the dream, sharp and sudden, and he struggled to see where the danger was. Somehow Phryne was across the floor now, and he reached out, her glorious warmth gone from his chest and the cold making him tremble. It was wrong, all wrong, and he looked for her as the room filled with smoke. When he saw her through the soot, she was laughing, twirling, disappearing with someone else, without a last look at him. Suddenly the pain in his chest was like the knife all over again, and Jack jolted awake. 

It was dark, the only light coming from pale streetlamp below his open window. He ran a hand over his face, trying to catch his breath, when he heard an unmistakable noise from the next room. 

Someone was picking his lock.

****

All of Jack’s years of tactical experience seemed to sharpen to a white point when he heard the latch on the door click open. In an instant, he made a mental inventory of his options for both position and weapons.

The small sitting room of his suite would not stall the intruder for long, but long enough for Jack to get out of bed. He glanced at the half-closed bathroom door, and eliminated it immediately; he’d have to pass the doorway to the anteroom to reach it.

Instead, he heaved his body painfully off the bed, silently sliding down the wall below the windowsill. The pale light slanting up to the ceiling from the streetlight was enough, he hoped, to give him cover of darkness if he stayed below the sill. 

A floorboard creaked in the anteroom, a faint rustle of clothing the only thing indicating it was anything other than the old building settling in the cooling night air.

Jack reached his left hand down behind the bedside table, his fingers feeling for the lamp cord and plug. If he could get the lamp into his hands, freed from the wall, it would do as a club. It wasn’t much, but he’d go down fighting. 

The intruder was careful. There was no torch beam to alert anyone in the room or out in the street, and he was practically silent. Only when his soft footfalls reached the threshold of the bedroom did Jack hear the slightly laboured breathing. He still couldn’t see the man, but now he knew he was either unfit, which was unlikely given his stealth, or anxious, which Jack could use to his advantage. 

The plug finally came free, and Jack gingerly reached up to grasp the brass column. He wasn’t quiet enough, though, and before he could swing the heavy base down off the table, the man lunged. 

For a brief moment, the man’s lined face was illuminated in ghostly lamplight, surging towards Jack over the bed. A flash of silver in his hand triggered an uncontrollable deja vu, and Jack felt his stomach turn. 

_Not that, not again._

The man was suddenly upon him, his weight hitting Jack like an automobile. Instantly, they were both scrambling in the small space between the bed and the wall. The man’s arm came up above Jack’s chest, the blade glinting in the gloom. Jack’s right hand came up to block the knife, but his bandaged fingers made it impossible to firmly hold his assailant’s arm. It slipped from his grasp, and the man shoved his body hard against Jack’s chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“I’ll bet that smarts, don’t it?” the man growled. “I’m afraid it’s gonna get worse. You’re not long for this world, Mister Robinson.” He pinned Jack to the wall with his body, using his legs for leverage, his large frame no match for Jack’s weakened state. 

Jack heaved, trying to catch his breath as his mind spun. 

He was going to die. Somehow, for some reason, the people who had tried in that alley were back to finish the job, and he was going to lose. 

In a last surge of effort, he thrust his right hand into his attacker’s face, feeling a grim satisfaction when he heard the sickening crack as his nose broke.

A string of profanity spewed out of the man’s bloodied mouth, and he fumbled the knife as he fought to keep Jack’s twisting body pinned. The blade clattered to the floor, skittering a foot or so under the bed. In punishment, the man roared and drove his fist so hard into Jack’s sternum, precisely over his wound, that Jack doubled over, his vision going black at the edges. 

All sound ceased. He saw the man on top of him, raging as if in slow motion. Jack’s looked down, staring impassively at the blooming red stain forming on his chest. He wasn’t afraid and there was no pain. All he felt was a crushing, bottomless grief, aching and infinite. His only thought was that he’d give his life again just for one moment with her, to tell her. Then he could pass. 

The man grabbed Jack’s hair, flinging his head back and screaming nonsense. Through the fog in his mind, Jack saw the man’s arm scrabbling beneath the bed for the blade. He wondered idly if it was the same knife that had pierced him before. 

He wondered if he’d feel it. 

He wondered if anyone would know, where he was, where he’d been, what had happened. 

He wondered where he’d be buried. 

He wondered if she’d miss him, if she’d cry, if she’d ever even know. 

The room was softening, tilting, and even the man’s knee on his chest felt like nothing more than a breath. The last thing Jack thought, before the darkness closed over him like deep water, was that he would try to imagine her face as he drowned.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MEA CULPA!! Lol. Here. Have another chapter. Because I love you.

The day was already very warm when Phryne rose early the morning after they’d arrived. She stood at the window in her green silk dressing gown, her arms wrapped around herself in spite of the heat. The hotel was seated at the mouth of the canal, and the view of the harbour was extraordinary. A long stone breakwater jutted out perpendicular to the shore, creating a bay for smaller sailed ships and skiffs. Further out, the hulking bodies of cargo vessels crept across the water, the metal hulls catching the colours of the sunrise. 

Somewhere in this city were the answers about Jack. In spite of a long warm bath in exotically scented water, Phryne felt cold, dry, and brittle.

She felt old.

Was it possible to survive the same storm twice? She survived Janey’s death, but she had been a different person then: young, resilient, naive. Now she felt not so much the green reed, able to bend in the wind, but the mighty oak, liable to break if the storm became unbearable. 

And it would be. Unbearable. It nearly was already, and she had no answers. Wasn’t that the word Jack had used, all those months ago? Unbearable. A wave of anger and hot tears erupted and she shook to the floor with sobbing. She had done everything she could never to be in this position again. Never to have someone so deep in her heart that their own life, their happiness, their wholeness mattered more than hers. Never to love so completely that her heart was in someone else’s keeping. But it had happened so slowly, so undeniably, that she found herself here: halfway across the world from everywhere, looking for the pieces of her heart. 

Eventually she was able to catch her breath, and pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. She watched as a pair of young boys ran to the edge of the water and tossed simple lines on wooden canes into the ocean to fish. She sighed. Behind her, out the elegant doors of the hotel, were the answers she needed. She wouldn’t put it off. 

Thirty minutes later, Phryne appeared in the doorway to the airy terrace restaurant of the hotel. Huge palms flanked the arches, and rattan fans twirled lazily above. It reminded Phryne of the sidewalk terraces in Paris, only tropical, and about eight times as large. A breeze blew off the water, and the shade from the broad pergola made it comfortably cool. 

Evan waved from a table near the edge of the crowd, and Phryne made her way through the sea of chairs.

He wore a crisp beige linen suit, and a straw fedora sat on the table beside him. She smiled tightly as he rose to greet her. 

“You look lovely, P. Sleep at all?” Evan leaned back, peering around Phryne to signal a waiter behind her.

“Not much, I’m afraid. It’s alright,” she said lightly when he frowned, “I believe I’m getting used to it. Who needs sleep when you have the adrenaline of anxiety to keep you on your toes!” She’d meant it to sound funny, but it hit rather closer to home than she’d aimed. 

“Tea?”

“Desperately. Have you been waiting long?”

“No, just long enough to have a glance at the paper.” Evan slid a folded copy of the English newspaper towards her, an article about the British Hospital front and centre on the page. Phryne’s eyebrows shot up.

“Read,” said Evan. “It appears our Mr. Sykes is still very much in Port Said, and quite the celebrity, at least in this crowd.” He gestured discretely to the other hotel patrons around them, most of whom appeared to be English.

Phryne frowned as she read. It was an account of a recent party at the consulate to celebrate the expansion of the hospital. In the only photograph, two men stood smiling at the camera holding glasses of Champagne. The copy underneath read, _Deputy Consul-General Mr. Wilbur Graham and Mr. Denholm Sykes, Chief Officer of Wells Developments share a toast to the new wing._

“Well that answers one question,” said Phryne. “Now to find him.”

The ordered breakfast, toast and jam for Phryne, which she barely picked at, and a full English for Evan, which he devoured. 

“I was always teased,” he said, dabbing his mouth with the napkin, “for being able to put away such hearty northern breakfasts in hot southern climes. Had a fellow in Aden who used to call me Peg Leg. I just seem to need it no matter what the temperature, or where I am!”

Phryne smiled. Twenty years might have passed, but sometimes she saw the same gangly, irreverent teenager in Evan that she had first known. The fact that he was here with her now, having done everything he could to help her, was more than she could dwell on at the moment. She was grateful, but she knew if she thought too much about it, that kind of gratitude could overwhelm her. 

“Right,” said Evan, refolding his napkin and sitting back in his chair. “Consulate?”

“Consulate. I believe I’m going to want to speak with this….” she pulled the paper towards her again, “Mr. Graham, and see what he can tell us.”

Evan signed for the meal, and they collected their hats. The spoke quietly as they made their way through the hotel lobby to the street. 

“My chap there is a lowly senior consul, but he’s a good bloke. Worked with him in Aden. And if it’s anything like the outfits I’ve worked, it’s a very small pond. Nothing happens without everyone knowing.”

“The danger is not knowing who might be compromised.” said Phryne. “I don’t imagine Wells was part of some elaborate network - his actions were those of a pathological narcissist, not someone who works well with others. But if this got out, it would cause a huge scandal for the British consulate, not to mention the embassy in Cairo, and there’s no telling who might have done what to ensure that didn’t happen.”

They stepped into the street, and Evan gestured at a shiny blue cab waiting out front of the hotel. 

“You can trust your man?” said Phryne.

“I can. He’s not so high-placed that there’s much in it for him if things go sideways, and he’s new here, so fewer stakes. He’s good people, Phryne.”

“Good. Then we start with him. But if we happen to cross paths with Mr. Sykes, I’d get out of the way.”

Evan started to grin, but the look Phryne shot him gave him no room to wonder. She wasn’t joking. 

“You’re a little bit scary sometimes, you know,” he said as he climbed into the backseat beside her.

“I know.”

Evan shook his head and fanned himself with his hat. All he could think was that if this Robinson bloke was ever found alive, he’d been the luckiest man in history.

****

Phryne's burgundy t-straps clicked on the tiles as she and Evan crossed the foyer of the British Consulate. 

Evan strode up to the woman at the desk and presented his card, informing her he and his associate had an appointment with Fergus James. The woman adjusted her glasses and glanced at his card. 

“Very good, Mr. Darling. I’ll let him know. You can go ahead up; his office is the fourth door on the left.”

As they climbed the stairs, Phryne spoke quietly. 

“I want to find out how much he knows, so follow my lead.”

Evan nodded. When they reached the right door, Evan held up crossed fingers, then knocked several times.

“Come in,” called a voice from inside. 

“Fergus!”

“Evan old man, how are you! Fancy seeing you here.” Fergus James leapt up from behind his desk and bounded over to Evan and Phryne, grabbing Evan’s outstretched hand. 

“Well since you never seem to make it back to London, I had to come all this way just to catch up! May I present the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher.”

Fergus’s attention was quickly and entirely diverted from his friend to the lovely woman standing before him. Never missing a beat, he accepted her proffered hand, kissing it lightly through her lace gloves, then swinging himself in beside her to steer her further into the room. 

Evan rolled his eyes. 

“Welcome, Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, you are a breath of fair English air in this desert land.”

“Actually, mate, she’s Australian,” said Evan dryly.

“Tut tut,” said Fergus, “We won’t hold that against her. I’ll pretend I never heard it.” He grinned. 

Phryne couldn’t help mirroring his smile as she allowed herself to be guided to one of Fergus’ two guest chairs. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. James,” she said, her eyes sparkling. 

“No, I won’t have it. You must call me Fergus, so I can delude myself into thinking we’re better friends than we are.”

“Mr. James, are you being fresh?”

“God I hope so,” Fergus laughed, “though I’ll admit it’s been a while, and I’m very likely making a royal mess of it.”

Phryne laughed, shaking her head as Evan took a seat next to her. 

Fergus sat back on the edge of his desk. He was boyishly handsome, with wavy chestnut hair and a quick, open manner than reminded Phryne of a puppy. “Can I offer you some tea, lemonade perhaps? They do a lovely one here with mint…”

“No, thanks, Fergus,” said Evan, at the precise moment Phryne said, “Lemonade would be lovely.”

Fergus grinned, and poured three glasses from a pitcher on a sideboard. 

The three of them chatted for a few minutes about the flight and Fergus’ recent posting, but eventually, Evan steered the conversation closer to their goal. 

“Fergus, we need your help. It’s a delicate matter, and we’re not sure whom we can trust.”

“I did get that impression from your wire, but I confess, I’m not sure what it’s about or how I can help you.”

“First,” said Phryne, leaning forward, “We need your promise of discretion.”

“Of course. It goes without saying.”

“He might be a cad,” said Evan to Phryne seriously, “But he’s a good man.”

Fergus scowled at his friend, but his face softened almost immediately. 

“We’re looking for someone, an Australian. A friend of mine was last seen disembarking a passenger ship bound for England at the end of November, and he never reboarded. We have evidence that his papers and passport were stolen and used to get someone from Port Said to London. We know the thief's name, his position, and suspect he might have had help. He’s long gone, but I need to find my partner. And someone here might know what’s happened to him.”

As she spoke, Evan watched his friend's face grow increasingly sober. He couldn’t tell if Fergus was hiding some knowledge of the incident, and wondered if Phryne was picking up anything. 

Fergus liked his job, and enjoyed the privileges it afforded him. Like Evan, he was a well-born boy, clever, charming, but bored by the prospect of being idly rich. Nearing a decade in the diplomatic service had awakened him to two things: the first was a healthy appreciation for true diplomacy, and the art of not burning bridges, The second, however, was as surprising to Fergus as it would have been to anyone who had known him in his headier days: he had come to see fairness and equality as something of a paragon. Astonishingly, Fergus James cared about the people he helped. 

“Miss Fisher, I’m not sure yet to what you are referring, but I can promise you, if there is any amount of corruption or criminality threaded through this office, I have no part in it, and would endeavour to root it out. I’m honoured you came to me, though I’m still not sure how I can help.”

Fergus stood and walked back to sit behind his desk. “What is the name you have, of the man you suspect harmed your friend?”

“We more than suspect, Fergus,” said Evan. “We know he boarded the Orient that same day using the passport he stole, and made his way to London.”

“He needed money,” said Phryne. “He knew if he used a false name no one would trace him, so he could sneak back into England, get the funds he needed, and be in the wind before anyone could find him.”

“You did,” said Fergus.

Phryne tilted her head modestly. “True, but I’m not most people, and I had strong motivation. I also happened to be.. well, not waiting… but…” Phryne found she was down a path she regretted, and circled back quickly. 

“When my friend failed to appear, I took matters into my own hands.”

“Which, incidentally, are frightfully capable, James, so keep that in mind.” 

“Miss Fisher, are you able to give me the man’s name, the one you suspect of the crime?”

“He’s Gerald Wells, Mr. James. He’s the one who’s been building your new addition at the hospital here.”

This time, Evan didn’t have to wonder if he was missing something. Fergus’s face blanched visibly when he heard the name. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then just sat frozen.

“Mr. James?”

“I- I.. I’m sorry, it’s just…” Fergus ran a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. 

“This cannot go further than this room,” he said finally.

Evan and Phryne nodded, though Phryne was glad he hadn’t asked her to sign anything binding. 

“A few months ago, there was a…. a disruption. I wasn’t privy to much of it; I’d only been here a few months myself, and wasn’t part of the team that liaised with the hospital. But you didn’t have to be right in the middle of it to hear things, rumours about goings on at the hospital, and the pressure some people here were under to keep things under their hats.”

“What kind of rumours?” asked Phryne.

“Bad ones.” Fergus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There were two gents here from London to oversee the project. Occasionally, an architect or engineer would come down for a few days, but mostly they hire people from here to build it, and I suppose these two keep their eye on everything.”

“Gerald Wells and Denholm Sykes.” 

Fergus nodded. 

“Stories started coming out about incidents at the hospital. Women being harassed, mistreated. Whispers about women being... violated. Women who worked there, all of them local. Wells denied everything, and nothing was ever official. There was never a formal complaint. 

“Then one day, around the time you’re talking about, it got very bad, very quickly. A woman was found dead... murdered, in Wells’ office at the hospital. Wells was nowhere to be found.” Fergus shook his head minutely as he stared unseeing at his desk. 

“Oh my word,” whispered Evan.

“It was… I’ve never heard of anything like it. He used a knife, his hands… He separated her head from her body….” A breath escaped his mouth, and he covered it with a hand, suddenly realizing what he’d said. 

“God Lord, forgive me, how inappropriate… I’m so sorry, Miss Fisher.”

“No need, Fergus,” Phryne said softly. “For better or worse, it takes a good deal to offend me. I’m no stranger to horror.”

She had known this man was calculating and dangerous, but this was a level of depravity that chilled her blood.

“At that point, no one could keep it quiet, and the police started looking for him. We had our security staff out for days, but there was no trace of him. His papers were revoked and his accounts frozen, but this is Port Said; everyone and everything comes through here eventually, and it’s probably not impossible to find your way out, even if the entire British government is looking for you.”

Evan leaned forward in his chair. “What day was the girl found Fergus?”

“I’d have to check, but the Deputy Consul-General would know; he and his staff have been in charge of the investigation, such as it is, and the hospital deal as well, come to think of it. I can have you speak with him if that might help?”

“It would, thank you,” said Phryne. “Obviously, Wells knew he was a wanted man, and needed to flee as quickly as possible. If he left that same day, if that was the day he encountered Jack,..... then he might have done it all alone. But if he hid out, going to ground for a few days, he would have needed help.”

“Mr. Sykes?” asked Evan.

“Most likely, especially if he’s in the habit of cleaning up his boss’ son’s messes. Archibald Wells did say the two travelled doing these contracts together. If Gerald’s habit is to leave a trail of victimized women in every locale, keeping that under wraps must be a nearly full time job for his companion. Fergus, we’ll want to speak with Mr. Sykes, as well, but I don’t want him to have any idea why.”

“I think we can swing that,” said Fergus. “There is a cocktail reception here this evening, actually, as the ambassador is visiting from Cairo, and I imagine Sykes will be here. I can get you two invitations as well, if you like?”

“Perfect,” said Phryne, grateful she’d brought the gown after all. “Meanwhile, I wonder if someone might arrange for Mr. Darling here and me to tour the new wing of the hospital.”

Evan looked at her questioningly.

“The hospital, P?

“Well, yes! As an official of the crown, you would love to see the progress being made on such a worthy project!”

“I…. would?”

“Absolutely! And if your companion happens to slip away for a few minutes to examine the scene of the crime, well no one can blame a mere lady for being bored with a construction site and then getting hopelessly lost, can they?” Phryne’s eyebrows were almost as high as her voice, and the innocence in her tone was fooling exactly neither of the men in the room. 

Evan rolled his eyes. “Naturally.”

Fergus, however, appeared even more bewitched by his new friend than before. 

“Marvellous! But Miss Fisher, the office will be locked; it was a crime scene after all.”

Evan rested his head in his hand, his elbow on the armrest of the chair. “Somehow, Fergus my friend, I don’t think that will be a problem.”

In answer, Phryne reached into her beaded handbag, then held up a set of pearl-handled lock picks, her smile glittering. 

“Oh Evan,” said Fergus, “ _I like her_.”


	12. Chapter 12

In the end, the hospital wasn’t terribly helpful. Phryne managed to sneak into Gerald Wells’ abandoned office, but in spite of it being virtually unchanged from the day that Faiza Mohammed was found, nothing in it gave Phryne any indication of where Wells might have gone, or whether Sykes was involved. 

What it did give Phryne was a terrifyingly heightened sense of just how cruel Gerald Wells was. 

She had stopped in her tracks the moment the door closed silently behind her. The floor had been mopped, but the grout between the large tiles was irrevocably stained, almost black with the blood of the girl. Two pools, one much larger, suggested Fergus James’ story was true; she had been decapitated. 

Looking around the small office, Phryne decided it must have been rage. Perhaps the woman had fought back, tried to escape what sounds like it was a common occurrence, at least for her attacker. He may have been calculating in his predation and his escape, but this was a murder of passion and ire, not premeditation. 

If it was the first time he had assaulted Faiza, she was far from his first or only victim. Phryne found wrist restraints of thick black leather, held together with a short piece of chain, and lengths of soft rope coiled in a cabinet. There were strips of fabric, most likely used as gags, deeply wrinkled from repeated wringing. 

Most chilling was a rosewood box with a polished lock that was more beautiful than it was secure. Inside was an insert of undulating midnight blue velvet, very like the cases in which Aunt Prudence kept her silver. But this was not for fish forks and teaspoons. Here, each luxurious cradle was specially made to hold a blade. Four spaces were filled; four ivory-handled knives, their points nearly piercing the cloth, nestled side by side, patiently awaiting their master’s whim. The fifth slot, the largest, was missing. 

A shiver flitted over Phryne’s skin and she swallowed as bile rose in her throat. Gerald Wells was a madman, and he closer she got to the truth, the more afraid she was becoming. 

A locked drawer in the desk revealed several stacks of correspondence, mostly with Archie Wells, as far as Phryne could see. She slipped a packet into her handbag, in case the letters implicated Archie or Denholm Sykes, or gave any indication of where Gerald might be hiding. At the back of the drawer, there was another sort of stack, this one of unwritten postcards, tied together with black cord. The top image was of the Eiffel Tower, and Phryne nearly dismissed them, thinking them nothing more than souvenirs, but she happened to flip down a few from the top, and her stomach turned when she saw the images. 

Phryne Fisher was no prude, and had even been known to indulge from time to time in diversions that would certainly be deemed ‘pornographic’, but she had never in her life seen images like these. Grotesque, horrific drawings of sex and mutilation, far beyond the world of consensual bondage and roleplay. These were inhuman; the men depicted as monstrous sadists, and the women as expendable fodder. After four or five, each worse than the last, Phryne felt lightheaded and nauseous, and leaned heavily on the desk, her head low, trying not to be sick.

She reluctantly put the postcards into her bag, though she wasn’t sure she’d be able to show them to anyone, much less turn them in. With a last look around the cursed space, she let herself out as quietly as she’d come in.

When she rejoined Evan and the members of the little tour, Evan asked under his breath if she was alright. She nodded tightly. Steadying herself on Evan’s arm, she schooled her features into a mask of benign interest for the rest of the tour, grateful her friend didn’t ask her anything more. 

****

When Phryne and Evan returned to their hotel, a porter in a pill-box hat greeted them in the sweeping lobby. 

“This came for you, Sir.”

Evan picked up the envelope from the tray, thanking the young man, and they adjourned to the shady terrace to open it. 

The seal was from the consulate, and inside were two ivory cardstock invitations to the soiree at the consulate that evening. A note on Fergus’ own letterhead simply read, “See you tonight”, and at first they thought that was all the envelope held. But as Phryne went to place the note back inside, a small piece of paper slipped into her lap. 

A date. 

“November 25,” said Evan.

“Four days before he found Jack.”

“Now I _really_ want to question Mr. Sykes.” Phryne tapped her fingers on the marble tabletop and stared out at the harbour. 

“Phryne, this could get dangerous, quickly. What if Sykes is as brutal as Gerald Wells?”

“I’m not afraid of him, Evan, and I’m not defenceless. I don’t want to get you into any trouble with firearm licenses and such, but suffice it to say I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And a mercenary toad like Denholm Sykes doesn’t scare me in the least.”

Evan grimaced, but didn’t press her. 

After a late lunch and several glasses of icy mint lemonade, they parted to rest and freshen up before the party at the consulate. She smiled as they agreed on a time to meet, but inside her head, everything was screaming.

If she didn’t find Jack soon, she felt like she would crack apart into a million tiny pieces.

****

The evening sky over the city faded lavender to orange as Phryne and Evan stepped out of the hotel. The heat was abating, and Phryne heard the far-off calls to prayer from the mosques. 

“You are glorious as ever, Miss Fisher.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darling. Shall we?” Phryne picked up the train on her beaded gown of sapphire blue. Loose ruffles of lighter blue silk slipped up between the beading from the ground, making it look like she was walking on clouds. The square neckline was wide, with delicate beaded straps at her shoulders, and the back dipped low, revealing a long expanse of porcelain skin. Delicate diamond drops hung low from her earlobes, and the tiny swallow brooch was pinned where the strap met the gown on her shoulder. 

Evan helped her with her silk wrap, and they walked to the waiting taxi.

Phryne let her window down all the way, closing her eyes to feel the breeze on her face. 

“Alright, P?” Evan reached out to take the hand not holding her handbag.

She nodded. 

A frown told her he didn’t believe her, and she half-smiled before looking down at her lap.

“No, I’m not.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Oh darling, you’ve done everything. Just everything.”

“It isn’t enough, though, is it.”

Phryne have a tiny shrug.

“I don’t know. We’re so late.”

Evan turned his head, staring out of his own window for a few minutes. It was almost dark now, warm golden lights appearing in windows. 

“When did you know you were in love with him?”

Phryne was silent a moment. 

“Too late.”

“Phryne,” he began, but she silenced him with a vigorous shake of her head, her hand rushing to cover her mouth. 

Evan nodded, and once more looked out the window at the dusk. 

****

Fergus James greeted them at the entrance to the consulate lounge which had been transformed into a tropical oasis for the evening’s affair. Strings of twinkling lights crisscrossed overhead, and a space for dancing had been cleared in the centre of the parquet floor. A big band in matching white tuxedos was set up along the far wall, and the music was already swinging. 

Fergus nimbly scooped two coupes of Champagne from a passing tray, and presented them to Phryne and Evan as he reached them.

“Evan, I believe I owe you a case of something decadent, for having brought this gorgeous creature into my orbit!”

“I hate to break it to you, old man,” said Evan over the hum of the music, “But this woman tends to have her own orbit. I believe it’s us who’ve been swept into it!”

“Potato, Po-tah-to,” cheeked Evan. “Regardless, will you promise me the pleasure of a dance, Miss Fisher?”

“Delighted, Mr. James.” Phryne waited until Fergus had retrieved a glass for himself, then raised her glass to his. 

“So, before I rush off to do very important official consular things, let me point out a few people. Your Mr. Sykes hasn’t made an appearance yet, but it is early; I’m sure he’ll be here. Meanwhile, that,” he said, gesturing to a large, pale man in an over-large suit standing by a fountain, “is one of my superiors, the Deputy Consul-General, Mr. Wilbur Graham. As I said this morning, the hospital expansion and the murder investigation are all under his purview.”

Phryne noted the man’s shifting gaze, the fingers of the hand not holding his drink worrying constantly at each other.

“What can you tell me about him, Fergus?”

“He’s an odd bloke, not the most personable. I suppose he does the job well enough, but never seems to enjoy it. Seems like someone who wanted a title but not the pressure that comes with it, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you think he’d be easy to manipulate?” Phryne kept her voice low.

The corners of Fergus’ mouth turned down as he thought about it.

“Wouldn’t put it out of the realm of possibility, I’ll say that. Not an idealist, that one; and he does like his little luxuries.”

“Such as?” asked Evan.

“Well watches, for one,” said Fergus without hesitation. “I know he has a few magnificent pieces. I’ve asked about them once or twice, but he always puts me off. Said he inherited them, but I’m not so sure. I’m fairly sure he had at least one new one the last time he returned from the Continent.”

Phryne and Evan exchanged glances. A weak personality with a penchant for living above his means made a very good candidate for corruption. 

“Don’t let us keep you, Fergus,” said Phryne. “We’re happy to mingle, and something tells me you’re not hard to find in a crowd if we need you.” She grinned at him over her Champagne glass. 

“My dear, for you, I’ll come running, over the heads of the other guests if need be. And don’t forget to save me that dance. I plan to live off the memory for the next six months at least!”

Phryne and Evan both laughed as Fergus disappeared into the party. There were already far more people there than Phryne had expected when Fergus has mentioned a cocktail reception. English diplomats and expats rubbed shoulders with Egyptian businessmen. 

“Somewhat grander than I anticipated,” Phryne said as an Arabic man in traditional dress with a veritable entourage of acolytes passed them. 

“I agree,” said Evan. “Though you seem to be something of an anomaly.”

“Mmm,” Phryne agreed, “I do seem to have nearly a monopoly on my side of things, don’t I. Though I daresay, the Ambassador’s wife has an absolutely exquisite frock, and a bosom to match it.”

They shared a giggle, both noting again just how few women there were at the gala. 

_Pity. This of all times, I might as well be in a sea of pigeons as a party of men. There’s only one I want, and he seems the only one not here._

Neither Phryne nor Evan was in the habit of remaining on the periphery, but they knew their best chance at not alarming Wells’ possible accomplices was not to draw too much attention to themselves. As it was, Phryne was already the subject of at least the usual amount of ardour; after a short time standing quietly and sipping their drinks, she and Evan decided the best way to blend in was to dance.

Leaving her wrap at a table close to the dancefloor, Phryne allowed herself to be twirled into the fray. 

On the third pass around the floor, Phryne noticed a tall man in a sharp blue suit stride over to the Deputy Consul-General. His salt-and-pepper-hair was heavily oiled and plastered unflatteringly against his head, and his face reminded her of a mole - his nose too prominent, and the rest of his dark features clustered too closely around it. She manoeuvred Evan near to where the two men were already deep in conversation. Phryne feigned fatigue, laughing lightly as she pulled Evan to a vacant table.

“Darling, would you be a lamb and get us some drinks? I’m positively parched!” Phryne fanned herself with a ringed hand and batted her eyelashes at her dance partner. 

Evan stole a glance at the men just a table over from them, and Phryne nodded discreetly, giving him permission to leave. She opened her handbag and pulled out her lipstick and an ornate enamelled compact. 

As she slowly reapplied her signature red, she angled the compact mirror to see the men behind her. The dark-haired man in the blue suit was speaking low and intently, a hand punctuating his words by tapping the table. Graham looked worried, she thought, seemingly in a rush to reassure the newcomer of something. He was nodding and pointing behind him. Phryne casually stretched her neck, sweeping her eyes over the front of the room. As far as she could see, there was nothing there but the large windows that lead to the street, so perhaps Graham was indicating something off the premises. 

Evan returned with two gin cocktails, sitting beside Phryne with his back to the Deputy and his guest. He leaned in closely, keeping his eyes innocently on the dancers floating past.

“That’s Denholm Sykes with Graham now.”

“I suspected as much. Whatever they’re discussing, neither looks happy about it. Something’s gone wrong.”

“The hospital maybe?”

Phryne pursed her lips and frowned. “Don’t know… It’s like they’ve learned something that’s upsetting them.”

Evan shifted awkwardly. “Phryne, I am absolutely sure Fergus wouldn’t have tipped them off about us.”

“I didn’t believe he had,” she said. “I’ve been here 10 minutes, and besides the odd glance by the oily one at my décolletage, neither has paid me the least bit of attention. It isn’t us that has them flustered, but something has. Sykes hasn’t got a drink, and hasn’t made any effort to mingle with any of the other guests, though presumably, he’d be expected to at an affair like this.”

“What do you propose? I doubt very much they’d be very forthcoming if you sashayed over there and asked them, even if you do have considerable powers at your disposal.”

Phryne flashed a quick smile. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“I think I rather do, actually, having been on the receiving end once or twice.” Evan’s smile was fond. 

“Mmm. But you’re right. It does appears this is not the time for those particular powers, but I do possess other skills. We’re going to keep a close eye on those two. If and when they separate, you take Graham and I’ll take Sykes.”

“Take?” Evan swallowed thickly.

“Just distract him, darling. Engage him. You’re a visiting diplomat, discuss….” Phryne waved her hand in the air lightly. “Diplomacy.”

“Diplomacy. Of course.”

Phryne was just wondering if they should start dancing again, keeping near to that end of the floor, when there was a small commotion at the table behind them. Wilbur Graham looked like he had been struck, his doughy face even paler than before. Sykes was standing, his voice inaudible amid the sounds of the party around them, but his face was hard and dark. His eyes were fixed on the band at the end of the hall, but his words were directed menacingly at Graham. After a moment, he did up the buttons of his suit jacket and turned from the table without another glance at his companion. Graham sat stunned, his hands in his lap. 

“Evan, stay with Mr. Graham. If he speaks to anyone, try to listen. I’m going to follow our contractor friend, and see what’s upset him so.” Phryne tucked her handbag under her arm and stood to leave, her eyes on the retreating figure of Denholm Sykes. 

“I’ll do my best, P, but please promise me you’ll be careful.” His hand on her arm told her he meant it.

She met his eyes and nodded quickly, then slipped through the crowd towards the street. 

“Where’s the fire, sweetheart?” called a man in a light-coloured suit from the staircase as she rushed through the lobby. Sykes had a head start, and if she lost him in the street, she was sunk. 

She flew through the main doorway, then was forced to pull up short as she saw Sykes across the street, leaning against the wall of the building opposite. He was mostly in shadow, but his distinctive hair and the angles of his face were illuminated as he lit a cigarette. 

Phryne looked around, but other than a Consulate security officer on duty by the door and an elderly donkey-cart driver fast asleep in his seat, there was no one else in the street. Wishing she’d thought to grab her shawl, she made a quick decision, and delicately stepped off the curb.

“Lovely party, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you could spare one of those, could you? I’d be ever so grateful…”

Phryne swung her hips a little more than necessary as she stepped in closer to Sykes, keeping her eyes sultry.

“I don’t really smoke them anymore, but every once in a while I get a terrible craving, especially at this sort of thing.” She gestured to the consulate, where the band could be heard through the open windows. 

Sykes’ eyes were cold as he met hers, and she saw a flash of thinly veiled hostility he attempted to mask with manners.

“Of course, my pleasure.” Nothing close to pleasure registered on his taut face, and Phryne got the sense she was interrupting something.

Sykes reached into his pocket and drew out a silver cigarette case. Opening it, he offered the contents to Phryne.

“Ta,” she said, choosing one and putting it between her lips. 

Sykes produced a matching lighter, holding it out as she leaned in. Under the guise of steadying the flame, she rested one hand lightly on his wrist. 

_No watch. Well, perhaps this one has a different indulgence._

She breathed in deeply, remembering all at once why she hated smoking. Nothing else transported her back more wholly and forcefully to the muck and cold and misery of the war. The stench of death seemed to be the same scent and taste as the stick in her mouth, and she had to force herself not to gag as she exhaled. 

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr….”

“Sykes. Denholm Sykes, Miss….”

“The Honourable Phryne Fisher. My husband is a member of the diplomatic service, and I decided it was a good time of year to escape London and feel the sun.”

Sykes smiled, but it was thin and impatient. Phryne didn’t miss the occasional furtive glance at the building beside them. She glanced up casually. Grand Hotel. 

His cigarette finished, Sykes tossed the butt on the ground and twisted his shoe over it to grind it. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Fisher. I find myself unwell this evening and must return to my hotel. Charming to meet you. I do hope you’ll enjoy the rest of your sojourn in Egypt.” His accent was perfect upper-class London, but Phryne’s experienced ear noted something odd, a hint of something coarser in his inflection. 

“I’m so sorry to have detained you, Mr. Sykes. Goodnight, and thank you again.” Phryne walked back across the street, looking behind her several times to see Sykes disappearing down the block and around the corner. If her instincts were right, however, she didn’t think he was headed elsewhere at all, and certainly not back to his hotel. She climbed the few steps up to the front entrance to the consulate, and slipped around a giant column, effectively making it appear she’d re-entered the party.

Sure enough, it took less than five minutes for Mr. Sykes to reappear, this time sticking to the shadows under the eaves of the hotel. When she saw him enter the front doors, she crept back across the street and followed. 

The small lobby was unattended, making Phryne think this was more of an apartment hotel than a conventional one. The desk was shut down for the night, and the lights were low. She eased the oak and glass door closed behind her and paused, listening for Sykes. The churning of an elevator hummed from down a dim hall to the left, and she moved silently to the back of the lobby to peek around the corner. Keeping her head down, and her body well back in case the beading on her dress caught any light, she saw Sykes, his jaw set hard, pull open the cage and step into the lift. 

As soon as the carriage rose past the floor, Phryne hurried down the hall to watch the needle. 

_Second floor._

She spun around, finding what she sought in a dim red electric sign indicating stairs. Whipping open the door, she took them two at a time. 

There was no carpet in the hallways, and Phryne paused on the third floor landing to remove her silver shoes. Setting them down gently, she took advantage of being low to the ground to peer around the wall.

Sykes was alone in the corridor, hunched over a lock, apparently picking it. It wasn’t so late that any resident could be guaranteed to be there, much less in bed asleep. 

_Was Sykes there to steal something? Evidence perhaps, against himself and Wells, and possibly Wilbur Graham?_

Phryne didn’t see a weapon, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t armed; Sykes didn’t strike her as someone who left things to chance. She reached into her handbag and drew out her gun, letting the bag drop softly to the ground beside her shoes. 

Sykes jimmied the lock and silently opened the door. Phryne paused. If he was there to liberate some piece of evidence, it wasn’t worth the risk to follow him in. Better to catch him with whatever it was later, and use it against him. Her heart skipped a beat; but if it was something that could lead her to Jack, shouldn’t she get it as soon as she could?

(She silenced the voice that said, _It could help you find out how he died._ ) 

She made a split second decision to wait Sykes out, and to follow him back to his hotel. Tomorrow, when he was at the hospital, she could break in and see if she could find whatever it was he’d taken. 

Leaning against the wall that separated the stairwell from the corridor, she allowed herself a minute to breathe. She hadn’t really expected to find Jack, say, walking the street or waiting at the hotel as she pulled up; not really. But she had been studiously avoiding running down the list of terrible things that might have befallen him - that had kept him from her, or from reaching out to anyone. Now, being so close to a person she suspected had at least some of the answers brought reality crashing down around her like a caved-in ceiling. Soon, for better or worse, she would get to the bottom of this. And she realized she’d do anything, give anything, to find him safe.

A thud from the open room brought her back to the present, and she gripped the pearl handle on her revolver, her breath suspended in her chest. Could be Sykes knocked something over, she reasoned…

But a second crash, louder and longer, and the sound of muffled voices convinced her of the thing she’d been dreading: there was someone else in that room.

Phryne flew down the hallway, checking that no other doors had opened at the noises, and sidled up beside the slightly open door. Suddenly a man’s voice howled from inside, the sounds of a struggle getting louder. 

She kicked open the door and burst in, the light from the hallway illuminating the small sitting room. It was empty, which meant Sykes was in the bedroom with his victim. 

Phryne didn’t know what kind of weapon he had, but she hadn’t heard a shot, so she hoped it wasn’t a gun. If it was anything else, she might have the upper hand, if she could get him away from the victim. And if it was a gun…. well, she’d have to shoot first. 

She swung around the doorframe and focused her aim on the commotion under the window. Hoping to catch Sykes off guard, she flicked the light switch on the wall before he registered her presence, and stared at the tangle of bloodied bodies. 

Her heart caught in her throat.

The next seconds seemed to happen in a series of still frames.

Sykes’ face monstrous, contorted with rage.

His fist smashing into his victim’s chest one more time.

His long body rising from the floor in what seemed like an instant, like a nightmarish blue demon.

His eyes, ice cold despite the crimson of his face, a bellow bursting from his chest as he lunged for her.

The sharp crack of the gun as it went off.

The body sprawled on the rumpled bed.

Jack.

_Jack? Here?_

Her mind scrambled to right itself. She blinked rapidly, her shaking hands holding the gun at the unmoving form of Denholm Sykes, but her eyes fixed on the crumpled figure behind him. 

She could be imagining him, she knew. She could want to see his face so badly that she was setting it on the image of the poor soul who lay bleeding in front of her. But even as she sought any difference, any proof that he was not Jack, _her Jack_ , she knew she’d find none. 

Jack Robinson was on the floor, his body radiating blood. And she knew in an instant he was dying.

Choking on a sob, she nudged the lifeless body on the bed, then rushed to the floor beside the window. Jack was slumped against the wall, his arms heavy by his sides, his eyes closed. She reached out to his throat, muscle memory more than anything directing practiced fingers to seek out a pulse. The one she felt was slow and weak, and she felt herself starting to shake.

“Jack,” she whispered, her throat threatening to close around the word. “Jack, please, please, darling, look at me…”

Phryne grabbed a pillow from the bed and pressed it hard to the hemorrhage in his chest. Jack’s eyes fluttered, his mouth twisting in pain. 

“Yes, Jack, please... It’s me….” She took one hand from the pillow and cradled his face, sweeping her thumb over a hollow cheek stained with blood and tears. 

A whimper escaped his lips, and he blinked slowly, brow damp and knitted.

Phryne heard the sounds of movement in the corridor, of doors and voices, and had a dim awareness that people would have heard the gunshot. She knew he needed help desperately, but she was weighted to him as if bound by chains, and she couldn’t move.

“In here!” she yelled over her shoulder before turning back to Jack.

His eyes flickered open and seemed to stare right past her, then slowly focused on her face. His brow softened, his mouth closing and spreading into a beatific smile.

“Phryne,” he whispered.

“I’m here, Jack, I’m here, I found you.” 

Jack’s smile was wry and familiar, and it made her stomach clench.

“I was coming,” he said with difficulty, “I was coming to you.”

“I know, love. It’s alright. I know.” She swept a the hair off his face. “I got tired of waiting.”

“Impatient.”

She huffed a small laugh. 

“I wanted all of it,” he said, “I wanted you. More than anything.” Jack’s eyes fluttered again before staying closed as he laboured to breathe. Phryne knew from the thick, wet sounds that his lungs were filling with blood.

“Please!” she shouted. “In here! Ambulance!” 

A commotion in the next room told her someone was coming. 

She felt tears falling from her cheeks and jaw onto her chest, and pressed the pillow harder into his wound. He winced in pain and struggled to speak again. When he did, he was barely audible. 

“I knew you’d come,” he breathed.

“You did?”

“Yes. I knew you’d come at the end.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot possibly tell all of you beautiful, patient souls what your encouragement has meant. Thank you for reading, thank you for *letting* me beat up our beautiful DI, and thank you for sticking with me! You all deserve a backrub and like, 2 martinis. Here. Have the rest :)
> 
> (ps. for those who are interested, all of the places exept the Grand Hotel were real destinations at the time, in 1930: the resto in London, the hotel and hospital in Said, even the ancient Dolphin Hotel in Southampton. And yes, Jane Austen really did celebrate her 18th birthday there.) ;)

“If there is anything else, Miss Fisher, what we can do for you, you have only to name it. You have the gratitude of the entire British foreign service, and mine in particular. I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for you, but if there is anything at all we can do to ease the burden, I will personally see it will be done.”

The Consul General rose, his slight stature belying a steady strength and authority. “Wilbur Graham has been remanded into custody and will feel the full force of British law. I would that Mr. Sykes had been in a position to face the charges as well, but I cannot being myself to regret his passing.”

The small man shook his head.

“It appears Mr. Sykes was accepting large sums above his salary in exchange for covering up young Mr. Wells’ actions. The Met has arrested Archibald Wells on charges of abetting and facilitating, as well as harbouring a fugitive.”

“And Gerald Wells?” asked Phryne. 

“No word at all on his whereabouts, I’m afraid. But he will not find sanctuary in the British Empire, that is certain.” He worried the end of the armrest, frowning. “I’m afraid I am still deeply unsettled. To think such heinous acts were being committed by people with such privilege.”

“It is often the people with the greatest privilege who commit the most heinous acts.” Phryne met his eyes, and he nodded sadly.

“Well, I wish you peace, as they say here, Miss Fisher. May your next journey be safe and joyful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wicke.”

He gathered his hat and signalled to an aide waiting by the door, then paused, his hand on the back of the chair. 

“And your friend, Inspector Robinson.”

Phryne met his eyes.

“He is expected to make a full recovery?”

“He is. Thanks to the unparalleled care he received at this hospital. Jack was very lucky. It won’t be overnight, mind you, but we are very optimistic.” She smiled, and it occurred to the Consul-General that the gentleman from Australia was very lucky indeed. 

“Well. I am exceedingly happy to hear it. Please tell him when he wakes that my offer of assistance extends to him as well.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be sure to.” Phryne rose and accompanied Wicke to the door. “And I apologize again, Mr. Wicke, for turning down your lovely invitation to supper. I’m afraid for the time being, my place is here.” 

Wicke looked back over the airy room, the bare white walls, and the man sleeping peacefully on the bed. He gave a Phryne a small smile.

“I imagine you couldn’t be anywhere else. Good day, Miss Fisher.”

Wicke settled his hat on his head and nodded to the aide waiting just outside the door. Phryne watched them for a moment as they departed, then smoothed her cotton dress, and stepped back into Jack’s room. 

“You can open your eyes now, Jack, he’s gone.”

Jack cracked one eye then closed it again.

“How do I know there won’t be anyone else?” he said slyly.

“Because they’ve all been! There is absolutely no one else to talk to,” Phryne said definitively. “At least for today.” She grinned.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Thank you, for doing all of that. After the last day, I just don’t have it in me to talk anymore.” He reached his left hand out to her and she grasped it, coming to sit on the edge of his bed. 

“I know. But we both told them everything we can, so now it’s up to them.” She studied his face, noting the slightly healthier colour in his cheeks and the smoothness of his brow. It would take some time for her to stop seeing the worst when she looked at him - blood draining from his body into her hands, and his eyes telling her he thought she was a mirage. 

“Phryne, I’m alright. I am. And I’m going to be fine.” He squeezed her fingers in his.

She nodded. “I know.”

“But?”

“But it was so bad, Jack. So, so bad.” Her eyes filled with tears and she huffed and tried to wipe them away with her free hand.

“Shh,” he said. “I know..” 

“No, you don’t,” she said urgently. “You don’t know what it was like. It wasn’t just the blood, or the gun, or not knowing if you were already dead when the ambulance arrived. It was…” She searched desperately for a way to say what she’d never said.

“It was all of those things, but it was so much worse. I was so _scared_ , Jack…” The word was a whisper.

Jack’s jaw clenched reflexively, and he look down at his lap.

“I’m so, so sorry, Phryne. I never wanted you to go through anything like that.”

“Me? My god, Jack you were nearly killed, _twice_!”

He gave her a lopsided smile, but she didn’t return it. 

“I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep… It was like someone had ripped something vital out of me. From the time I got Dot’s message, it got worse and worse until I didn’t know if I could move, except moving was the only way to find you. And I had to, Jack, I had to find you.”

Jack saw the distress in her eyes and caressed her hand with his thumb.

“And you did. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you, Phryne.”

“God, don’t say that, Jack!”

“Say what? That you saved my life? You did!”

Phryne shook her head quickly, the tears making new tracks down her cheeks. 

“I wasn’t alright, Jack. I wasn’t alright without you.”

Jack frowned slightly, thinking at first she meant when she learned he was missing. But as he studied her face, her eyes firmly glued to their entwined hands, he wondered if she meant something else. He felt a clench in his chest having nothing to do with his sutures.

Phryne sighed deeply. “When you didn’t come, -” she held up a hand as Jack made to speak, “I know - I know now that you were, but I didn’t know then. And when weeks went by, and then months, and I didn’t hear from you, and you didn’t come…. I wanted to be alright with that, Jack I really did.” She shook head slowly. 

“But I wasn’t. I missed you. Terribly.”

Jack felt heat pricking the backs of his eyes.

“Phryne, I was never going to stay away. I couldn’t. But I should have told you.” His jaw worked tightly and his fingers stilled on her hand. 

“I should have done a lot of things, for a long time. But there was no way I was going to stay half a world away from you. I was a great fool, Phryne. A coward. I was so afraid of pushing you away I didn’t let you see what was real.”

“And what was that?” Phryne looked at him with guarded eyes. “What was real, Jack?”

“That I’m in love with you. Utterly. Terrifically. Probably terminally.” In spite of the weighty pitch of his voice, the corner of his mouth turned up imperceptibly. He shrugged gently. “All those days and terrible nights when I didn’t know where I was, didn’t know if anyone even knew I was missing… All I could think of was that I should have told you. Everything. Should have told you I was coming, should have told you nothing else matters, should have told you that my heart isn’t any good to me anymore without you.”

Tears that had stopped began again, but Phryne made no effort to brush them away.

As she struggled to speak, Jack spoke again. 

“You don’t have to say anything, Phryne. I don’t know what happens next, I just know I’m better with you.”

Phryne brought her hand to his face, mirroring the action from the other night. She’d known in that moment that if she got the chance to keep Jack Robinson’s heart, she would hold so closely it would never be out of her care. 

She leaned in, carefully keeping her weight off his bandaged chest. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open, his hand coming up almost of its own accord to grasp behind her head. When she pressed her lips lightly to his, their eyes closed, and they tasted tears. 

Phryne leaned her forehead on his and stroked his jaw with her hands. 

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you, Jack Robinson.”

He pulled back enough to search her eyes, and when all he found was truth, he smiled, a wide, beautiful smile. 

“Love?”

Phryne cocked her head to the side, fixing him with a not-very-convincing scowl. “Inspector, I thought you were a detective. Detect.”

She brought her lips to his again, pouring every ache she’d felt without him into the kiss, and every joy she felt at his touch. When they parted, she was trembling, and tears streaked down his cheeks. 

He drew his large hand up and down her arm, and she reached forward and wiped his tears.

“I’m not cold,” she whispered.

“I’m not sad,” he said. They laughed. 

“What do we do now?” he asked, once again twining his fingers with hers. 

“Well, seems to me you get well enough to travel, I book us passage on a beautiful ship heading East, and we see what kind of adventures we can find. I am told you have a considerable amount of leave left before you need to be an upstanding member of the Victorian Constabulary again.”

His smirk told her as much as he liked the sound of that, it wasn’t exactly what he’d been asking. 

“And then?”

“And then we go home, together. I’ve never done this before, Jack, and I know I’m going to make mistakes, but you’re never going to wonder about my affection again. Whatever comes next, we’ll make it up as we go along, but we’ll do it together.”

“Just now I wonder if maybe I didn’t make it after all,” said Jack softly. “Except even in my best dreams, I wasn’t this happy.”

She leaned in to kiss him again, deeper this time, and felt a familiar flame rush to her core. 

“Ow!”

“I’m sorry!” She sat back and ghosted a hand over his chest. 

“Although, I will say, in virtually all of my best dreams I am considerably more able-bodied that I appear to be now,” Jack said, frowning. 

Phryne looked up at him through long lashes. “Oh yes? And just what might you have been doing with such an… able body?”

“Phryne,” he warned, flashing a look at the open door.

Phryne pouted. 

“No fun, Jack,” she said, her tongue snapping the last letter of his name.

Jack spoke, his voice low and rumbling.

“On the contrary, Miss Fisher. I plan to indulge in all _kinds_ of amusements when I’m fully recovered.” 

Phryne felt herself flush delightfully.

“Oh Inspector, I am very happy to hear it. I might just have a few ideas myself…” Phryne was trailing one slim hand down the front of Jack’s torso when a throat-clearing from the doorway made her jump.

“Evan! Come in. Jack Robinson, I am honoured to introduce Evan Darling, Esquire. Evan, this is Jack.” 

Evan bent to lightly kiss Phryne’s cheeks, then strode to Jack’s bedside. He knew he’d interrupted something, and was grateful for formalities to fall back on.

“Detective Inspector, it’s a pleasure.”

Jack smirked. “I’m fairly sure the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Darling. I can’t thank you enough. Miss Fisher as told me of the lengths you went to in order to find me, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude.”

“I’m sure Phryne has greatly exaggerated my contribution. I really just made a few phone calls. The rest was unequivocally Phryne, a fact which something tells me does not come as a complete surprise to you.” Evan’s eyes were laughing, and Jack decided he very much liked the affable Englishman, even if he was an ‘old friend’ of Phryne’s.

Jack laughed. “Then I applaud you for surviving her.” Evan laughed, and Phryne huffed in mock indignation. 

“I’ve actually come to say goodbye, P. I’m headed back tonight. Steamer this time; I believe I’ll leave the flying to you.”

Phryne hugged Evan tightly. 

“Thank you, for everything, Evan. I couldn't have done it without you.”

“I think you are the only one in this room who believes that.” He smiled. After a last nod at Jack, Evan gave Phryne a last kiss on the cheek and was gone. 

“If you’re wondering,” said Phryne.

“I’m not.”

She looked at him. 

“Phryne, I cannot be jealous of your past, because it made you who you were. And I already know Evan isn’t the only hero in your story. I don’t care. All I care about is now, and tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that, if you still want them with me.”

She came to sit beside him again, nudging an errant curl off his forehead. 

“How did you get so wise, Inspector?”

“Hmmm. Near-death experience. I recommend them to everyone.”

She grinned. 

When the duty nurse arrived an hour later with Jack’s dinner on a tray, she found the two, Phryne lying carefully with her head on his shoulder, his good arm wrapped around her. Dinner would wait.

*****

Epilogue

_Eight months later_

Phryne Fisher descended the stairs of her home quickly, the aquamarine silk of her day dress making it appear she was riding a wave. Struggling to insert an earring, she scowled, craning her neck in the hat stand mirror. 

“Jack? Are you ready? We said we’d be there at one!”

“Miss Fisher, I know it might surprise you to learn this," said a voice from the parlour. “But not all of us take the better part of two hours to get dressed.”

Phryne stood in the doorway, the colour high in her cheeks, holding a lipstick tube and frowning. Jack smiled at her placidly as he folded his newspaper.

“Although,” he said, rising from the armchair and walking towards her. “I’m fairly sure the end justifies the means.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and placed a light kiss on her lips. She softened, and turned reluctantly back to the mirror. 

“Are we picking Mac up?” Phryne asked as she applied her lipstick.

“No, she telephoned and said she would meet us at the church. So the Christening is at one, and then back to the Collins’ for tea?”

Phryne turned and reached out to straighten Jack’s already straight tie. 

“Yes. And Aunt Prudence will be there, so behave.”

Jack trailed his hands down her sides before giving her a light pinch on the bottom. “Miss Fisher, are you insinuating I have ever behaved with less than absolute decorum?” His voice, pitched low, caused a shiver across her skin. 

Phryne tilted her head and grinned. “Well I would bring up that incident in my late uncle’s study last month, but I really can’t blame you. That gown is deadly.”

Jack gave her a gentle smirk.

“I got in so late last night, I forgot to tell you: I received a letter yesterday, from Habiba,” said Jack. “She is settled in her room at the London School of Medicine for Women, and classes began last month. She’s deliriously happy, and made me promise to tell you she will find a way to repay you one day. I’m not sure she believes that a generous stipend is generally included in medical scholarships, even those from Very Honourale private patrons, but she’s abundantly grateful, and I’m sure she’ll use it to great advantage.”

Phryne shook her head. “Silly woman. It’s I who can never repay her.” She smiled, then turned and presented Jack with her back. “Do my last buttons?” 

Jack stretched his fingers a little before tackling the tiny pearls that ran the length of Phryne’s spine.

“Never thought I’d be able to do this again,” he said softly as he finished the last one.

She spun in his arms, and placed her hands on his chest, on either side of the now-healed wound.

“I never thought I’d be able to do this,” she said, reaching up and kissing him long and deeply. “...at all.”

She held his eyes, once again overwhelmed at what they’d become in what felt like a very short time. 

Jack had been well enough to leave the hospital in two weeks, and leave Port Said in three. Phryne booked passage for them on the beautiful _Strathnaver_ , one of the P & O line’s luxurious new _White Sisters_ ships. 

Somehow, the Chief Steward had laboured under the mistaken notion that Jack was Phryne’s husband, and had set aside a single - though staggeringly luxurious - suite among the first class cabins. Phryne had thought it cruel to disabuse the harried man of the idea, and so they had shared a space for the duration of the voyage. 

Although Jack had still been healing, he discovered his lover was nothing if not inventive and somehow they were able to pass the weeks at sea without incurring (serious) further injury.

In truth, neither of them could believe how easy it was. They had slipped from being friends to being lovers as easily as they become partners. When the Lady Fothringham’s diamond tiara had gone missing from the Purser’s safe, they fell in step on the case as naturally as if it had been a year before. Only now, while they both insisted they maintain a professional facade at work, each was finally free to indulge the little (and not so little) desires that punctuated their relationship. 

Once back in Melbourne, any harboured anxieties about blending two independent lives seemed to vanish with each passing day. After only a month, Jack had let his bungalow, and was a permanent resident of Wardlow. If society at large was offended, they held their tongues in the presence of the two detectives; Phryne’s, thanks to her extravagant generosity and philanthropy, and Jack’s, because of his unparalleled solve rate. Even the Chief Commissioner grudgingly accepted Jack’s ultimatum, in order not to lose his best officer. 

“There,” said Phryne, adjusting the angle of her flower and feather fascinator and twirling in front of Jack. “Respectable enough for a godmother?”

Jack gave her a tiny lopsided smile then pulled her close. 

“I don’t know about respectable, Miss Fisher, but I can promise you, little Marguerite Collins will have the bravest, most bewitching, most beautiful woman in the world as her godmother.” He kissed her gently.

Phryne wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head into his chest, listening to his heart through layers of cotton and wool. Finally, she raised her head to meet his eyes.

“I’m glad to hear it, Inspector, because as I understand it, Maggie’s godfather is a rare and remarkable man himself.”

He smiled, and turned them so they were both reflected side by side in the long mirror. 

“Hm,” said Phryne. “You’re right. They make a perfect pair.”

Jack smiled.

“Never doubted it for a second.”

“Ready Inspector?”

“Lead on, Miss Fisher. Lead on.”


End file.
